


To The Stars

by keithslance



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Character Death, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Gay Keith (Voltron), Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, RMS Titanic, Secret Relationship, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2018-11-30 05:11:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11456673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keithslance/pseuds/keithslance
Summary: They called it the Ship of Dreams.For Lance McClain, winning two tickets aboard the largest ocean liner in the world in a game of chance is the only lucky thing to happen to him in his life. A chance to get back home to America, to the family he left behind in hopes of making it big in the industrial boom in England. To him, this is freedom.But to Keith Kogane, orphan and heir to an enormous fortune and a reputable name, the RMS Titantic is a cage. Trapped in an engagement decreed as his parents' last wish, Keith struggles to make peace with the fact that once he and his fiancée touch American soil, he will be forced to live a lie for the rest of his life.Their first meeting is pure chance. Their second is not. Sparks fly, and when that smoldering fire catches flame, it becomes an inferno that consumes them and everything else in their path. What ensues is a forbidden love, a race against time, and a sliver of hope that hangs by a thread.This is their story.





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Author's Note:**

> This movie has always had a most special place in my heart. The pain, the love, the fear, all avalanching into one incredible story that you are devastated to leave. I can only hope that my rendition can make someone else feel the same way that this movie has made me feel. 
> 
> I have been working on this for a long time, and nearly gave up on the idea until I shared it with an amazing [friend of mine](http://soylante.tumblr.com), who immediately re-inspired me to keep writing and finish what has been brewing inside of me for months. All of the gorgeous artwork contained in these following chapters are hers, and I could not be more grateful that such an incredible artist and person wanted to contribute to this story. 
> 
> The only thing I can promise from this fic is that it will be a ride, from start to finish. Some of the scenes and lines will reflect those in the original movie and some will not. There may be historical inaccuracies or wording that may not be just right, and I hope that you'll excuse it. For me, what is most important is that this is Keith and Lance's stories; both individually and together. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy♡
> 
> Tumblr: [marmoraskeith](http://marmoraskeith.tumblr.com)  
> Artist: [soylante](http://soylante.tumblr.com)

 L.

Somewhere in the background, a glass shatters on the floor. The tinkling spray of the shards against dirty hardwood clinks dully in Lance’s ears, muffled by the harsh pounding of his heartbeat. He can feel it punching the back of his ribcage like a kick drum, a constant reminder of how much is riding on his shoulders at this very moment.

A cacophony of sounds beg for his attention: the laughter of the two escorts at the bar near the door, seeking their next customer; the roaring jeers of the men at his back, who are no doubt praying with everything they have that he isn’t as good as he says he is; the quiet whimper of his best friend, Hunk, to his left, wringing his hands as he stares unblinkingly at Lance and waits for him to decide their fate.

Lance closes his eyes. Blocks the world out with the sheet of black covering his sight. Five seconds. He gives himself five seconds to breathe through the fear, through the anxiety and the pressure building high in his throat, threatening to choke him. He takes that breath in through his nose—one, two—blows it out—three, four, five—and his eyes snap open.

All Lance feels now is calm, despite the chaos raging around him. His gaze narrows on the round board ten feet in front of him, hanging nearly lopsided on the wall, taunting him with its broken rings of red and green. The pressure in the room is monumental, but somehow, Lance is able to completely brush it away. It’s as though he’s staring straight down a tunnel and the light at the end is that tiny red circle sitting in the center of that board. With one smooth motion, Lance draws his arm back and smiles.

He throws.

 _Thunk_.

For a moment, everything stands still. Time stops as Lance blinks, and blinks again, unable to register what just happened. Because straight ahead, the dart he threw is sitting dead center, its feathered tail surrounded by the bullseye it’s buried in.

They won.

In an instant, the world erupts around him.

Hunk is screaming, and suddenly, Lance is being lifted up by the waist before Hunk spins them both in a dizzying circle, hooting and shouting the entire time as the men behind them swear and kick the nearest table over with an enormous clatter. Insults are being thrown back and forth in harsh languages Lance doesn’t understand, but he can barely hear it over the pounding of his heart and the laughter escaping his throat.

He did it. He won.

The world is sideways by the time Hunk finally puts Lance back on his own two feet, but Lance couldn’t care less. He stumbles forward and snatches the two innocent-looking pieces of paper off of the betting pot. It’s hard to believe that in his hands lies the future. Inscribed in black ink and elegantly curled letters is his way out, his way back to his family, back to the life he left in hopes of eventually making something of himself.

Lance lets out a slow, shaky breath. In his hands are two tickets, the top of each one reading WHITE STAR LINE just above a picture of the ship that will be the very reason he sees his little sisters again. After all this time, after all of the pain and the nights where his stomach seemed to be caving in on itself out of hunger, out of all of the hardship he’s faced in these past two years, finally, Lance has won.

Grinning hard, Lance sidesteps a bar stool being thrown past him and slaps the second ticket into his best friend’s waiting hands. Hooking his arm over Hunk’s shoulders, Lance pulls him into his side and yells over the racket, “Whaddya say, Hunk? You ready to go home?”

Before Hunk has a chance to reply, the shrill whistle of the very same ship they just won tickets to board pierces through the din of the bar. All heads turn to look out the window at the harbor in unison, and that’s when the adrenaline flushes through Lance’s entire body. Whooping, both Hunk and Lance grab their jackets from their bar stools, shoving their way through the crowd that had gathered during their game of chance.

They’re almost out the door when Lance’s coat gets yanked harshly backwards, making him stumble into the broad chest of one of the Frenchman who had bargained his and his comrade’s tickets on a game of darts.

“Those are _our_ tickets,” the man hisses through rotting teeth, his snarl curling high enough on his scarred face that any other man might buckle out of fear.

Good thing Lance isn’t like any other man. Throwing him the widest smile Lance can manage, Lance twists out of the man’s grasp in a series of steps too complicated to follow before darting to the door. Raising his hand to his forehead, Lance gives the poor sucker a firm salute that somehow mysteriously transforms into him flipping the guy the bird right before Hunk grabs the collar of his shirt and hauls him out the front door. A frustrated shriek of rage follows on their heels, and Lance and Hunk share a look before breaking into a run.

Jubilant laughter bursts from Lance’s mouth as they both tear through the harbor, their tattered boots slapping cobblestones as they jump, duck, and dodge their way through the overflowing streets, cheering as they go. Because, after nearly two years away from everything Lance is living for, he’s going to see them again. Fixing his eyes on the nearest gangway and smiling bigger than the moon, Lance pushes his body faster, faster, and lets himself run straight towards his saving grace.

 _This is it_ , he thinks, joy pulsing through his veins with every beat of his heart. _I’m going home. I’m finally going home._

_I’m free._

 

 

K.

_I’ll never be free._

The thought crushes Keith’s mind between clawed fingertips, causing a throb of pain to pulse through his right temple. Closing his eyes, Keith slightly turns his body towards the door of the window and prays for the fresh air to ease his headache. He feels confined enough as it is in the close quarters of the carriage that is currently taking himself, his fiancée, and his soon to be father-in-law to their destination. All he wants is relief.

“Darling? Are you feeling alright?”

A tentative touch of a delicate palm against his coat sleeve. He can feel her fingers, thin and slight, tightening around his arm in concern.

And just like every other time she touches him, Keith prays. He prays that he will feel something. He prays that, maybe this time, his heart will stir and lighten. That he will feel something other than dread twisting his stomach into knots that even the most veteran sailor could never untie.

And just like every other time Keith prays, nothing changes.

“Mr. Kogane?” Lord Alfor’s deep baritone pushes through the pain currently wracking his skull, and Keith feels the cold pool of fear start to rise inside of his chest.

Sucking in a deep breath through his nose, Keith forces his eyes open and feels his mouth curl the corners of his lips up into a placid smile as he turns to look at Allura. Her near-turquoise eyes beseech him for an answer as her grip tightens slightly more, and everything inside of Keith locks up.

Any man would be lucky to have Allura Altea as their betrothed. She is perfect in every way a woman can be: beautiful, almost ethereal, polite but more than able to hold her own, educated, well-off, and daughter to an earl with unimaginable power.

And yet, seeing her hand on his arm makes Keith’s throat close. And his lungs tighten. And all doesn’t feel right in the world anymore, because all doesn’t feel right within himself.

“Fine, Allura.” His weak smile grows wider. Faker. “I’m quite alright.”

Allura breathes out a small sigh of relief and smiles, patting his arm. It almost hurts to see the concern softening in her gaze. “I’m glad. It would be a fright for you to be feeling unwell before our voyage.” Turning to the window next to her, she lifts the curtain aside and peeks out, the sun catching on the excitement radiating from her face. “It is such an enormous vessel,” she says, almost to herself, then drops the curtain, the sun disappearing from her cheeks. “How is it afloat, Father?”

Alfor’s chuckle resonates in the small space, a deep baritone. “Hard work, my dear. Very hard work.” He winks at his daughter as he straightens his waistcoat and settles deeper into his seat. “And a lot of calculations, I daresay.”

“And money,” Keith mutters under his breath, scowling as he lifts the cloth covering his own window. From his side, all he can see is the swarms of people moving back and forth, their faces aglow with awe as they stand on tiptoes to get a glimpse of the ship that Keith is about to step onto. _How simple it must be for them_ , he thinks, squinting to better see the delight so evident in their expressions. Trying to ignore the creeping green of envy inside his heart, Keith lets the curtain fall back into place, hands falling to his lap as he fiddles with the ring on his left hand, twisting it around absentmindedly. There’s no point in wishing for something he will never obtain.

“What was that, Mr. Kogane?” Alfor’s unimpressed query reaches Keith’s ears and it takes everything in him not to snap.

“Nothing, sir,” Keith replies, meeting the man’s steely gaze with his own. His voice is as flat as the look in his eyes. “Just agreeing that it must have been quite a feat to create something this substantial. They call her unsinkable, do they not?”

Alfor pauses, his mouth tightening into an unforgiving line. Keith can see the distaste in his eyes, in the way that Alfor looks Keith’s less-than-proper form up and down, lingering on the ear piercings in both his ears, the delicate chain around his throat, and his hair that would be brushing his shoulders if it wasn’t pulled back into a ponytail with a leather tie.

Keith is an embodiment of rebellion, of everything that Alfor detests, and yet is destined to be his daughter’s husband in less than a week. It doesn’t get any more ironic than that.

“That they do,” Alfor finally replies, looking away from Keith and out the window. “She is a true testament of the advancements of our time.”

Keith just barely refrains from rolling his eyes. It’s no secret that the Altea family fortune was one of the biggest contributors to the _RMS Titanic_ ’s construction, mainly because Lord Alfor is not exactly subtle about announcing to anyone within earshot that he is part of the reason that the vessel is on the water today. He never mentions the money of course, as it would be unseemly to boast in that sort of manner, but somehow, Lord Alfor still manages to make it crystal clear.

Of course, the amount that he poured into this project, along with probably a hundred other ventures that turned into money pits with no profit, is part of why his family is now in such extreme debt.

Lord Alfor has never been shy about spending his money and taking on investments, but it seems like the only one that actually has something in the way of a positive outcome is the vessel floating in the harbor twenty feet away. There were many pitches that Lord Alfor took under his wing, convinced that it would make him thousands in return for his sponsorship, but nearly every single one turned out for the worse. His wife left him long ago, no longer able to deal with her husband’s failures and the money that he allowed to slip between his fingers like sand, but Allura stood by him out of loyalty. All of their possessions that they were bringing with them on this voyage today are what they have left; a portrayal of what little remains to the name of the once-great Altea bloodline.

From some of his earliest memories, Keith remembers his father condemning such frivolous spending, finally sitting Keith down when he was of proper age to teach him how to keep the books, where to put their savings, and how to protect their investments and their profits from the family company.

All the more reason why it came as such a shock to Keith to discover that the arrangement of his and Allura’s marriage was struck up by his father and Alfor not even a week before the car accident that left Keith an orphan at twenty. It doesn’t take a genius to know that this engagement is the only reason Alfor tolerates Keith at all.

Out of the corner of his eye, Keith can see Allura looking between him and her father, her brow furrowing as she picks up on the unspoken tension in the carriage. Just as she’s opening her mouth, their ride jolts to a halt, rocking them back and forth before the wheels settle and the door next to Allura opens with a flourish.

“My lords and lady, we have arrived!” Takashi Shirogane, Keith’s right hand man—and, undoubtedly, one of his only friends—reaches into the carriage to offer his hand to Allura for her to step out of the coach.

Alfor’s manservant, Sendak, a broad-chested tree of a man, stands silently to the side, the one eye that isn’t covered with a black eyepatch staring straight at Keith. It’s a strange feeling, knowing that one is being watched, but Keith has never been one to back down from a challenge. Letting his expression fall flat, nearly bored, Keith fixes his gaze on Sendak and stares unashamedly back.

This isn’t the first time that Sendak has looked at Keith like he is an insect to be squashed beneath his boot.

To Keith’s left, he hears a small noise of excitement that draws his attention to Allura taking Shiro’s palm as she gathers her dress and steps down from the carriage. Shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand despite the broad rim of her hat, she gazes up at the dark steel hull of the ship that is docked not twenty feet away, the fresh white paint reading _T I T A N I C_ bold and loud across her side.

“Incredible,” she whispers, spinning around with a smile bright enough to blind. “She is incredible, Father!”

Alfor descends from the coach next, a laugh rumbling low in his chest. “Yes, my dear. But just wait until she takes us out to sea.”

Allura clasps her gloved hands together in delight and begins asking Alfor all kinds of questions, proving once more that she is more than just a pretty face. Her inquisitive nature is part of what Keith admires about her. She seeks to gain knowledge and to understand the inner workings of thing she doesn’t understand instead of humming and feigning interest like other ladies of her stature. This arrangement would be far more difficult if Keith was stuck with a woman who has nothing but air in her head.

Sighing, Keith follows, stepping down to the cobblestone and steadied by Shiro’s hand on his shoulder. Ignoring what he knows from the hairs rising on the back of his neck is the lingering stare of Alfor’s henchman, Keith turns his gaze up to the mammoth vessel before him. His jaw clenches as he feels the steel arms of his cage tighten around him even further. He can hardly breathe now, icicles pushing their freezing tips straight into his lungs, and he wonders how he can be standing on solid ground and still feel like he’s drowning.

“Are you alright, sir?” Shiro murmurs in his ear, his hand lingering. There’s worry in the words Shiro speaks, concern and apprehension and a wish to help. Keith notes it enough to know that he’s being too obvious again and silently berates himself for letting his emotions play out on his face. Feelings are internal for a reason. He cannot allow himself to show the fear that is consuming him.

Rolling his shoulders back until his spine is straight and his chin is aloft, Keith arches his brows and throws a crooked smirk at his friend. “Of course, Shiro.” The words leave him easily, breezing past his lips with the haughtiness that rivals that of even Lord Alfor’s tone. “I think I’m quite ready for an adventure.” Keith tilts his head towards the gangway that leads from Southampton’s harbor up and into the _Titanic_. “Shall we?”

Shiro doesn’t believe him. It’s plain as day on his face as he trails after Keith to join Allura and Alfor in beginning the walk towards the line of other first class passengers waiting to board the ship. The thing is, Keith can’t find it in himself to care. He’s doing what he has to do to survive.

He’s certain that, one day, he will fall in love with Allura. Surely, he will.

There will come a day that the ache to touch a chest that is hard and flat instead of one that is soft and rounded will fade away. When repulsion will be replaced with desire. When he will feel the way that everyone else seems to feel about the women in their presence, and his eyes will linger on their softer forms instead of dart away. When he will cease having fleeting thoughts of how it might feel to have a man’s mouth pressed against his own.

Surely, that day will come.

Keith’s inner turmoil get momentarily sidelined by the overwhelming feat of moving through the stifling mass of people to get to the boarding ramp. Eyeing the crowd, Keith stays by Allura, offering his arm for her to take and partially using himself as a shield against the bodies pushing forward to get a better view of the ship. Meanwhile, Lord Alfor forges a path ahead of them, Sendak hovering never more than a few feet behind him. Occasionally, Alfor will turn around and encourage them with sharp barks, “Let’s go, let’s go!”, and Keith and Allura’s footsteps quicken to try and keep pace. Shiro taps Keith’s arm briefly, pointing towards the carriage they just left behind to indicate where he’s going before breaking away from their group. It’s clear he’s telling the other servants where to take all of the luggage to ensure it gets onboard, and all Keith feels is relief. At least there’s some sense of order amongst this chaos.

Allura’s arm squeezing his own draws his eyes back to the scene before him. There are swarms of silk top hats and lacey umbrellas clouding Keith’s vision as he moves forward, but it’s the common people’s drab clothing and looks of awe that draws his attention once more. Not because of the fact that they are less fortunate than himself and the company around him, but because of the purity emanating from their smiles and cheers, from the way they wave so enthusiastically at those already onboard even though they likely do not know anyone on deck. It is such a genuine exchange, an untainted moment of sharing excitement for those lucky enough to have a chance to experience such an extraordinary journey, that he can feel himself smile genuinely for the first time in what feels like forever.

“Keith!” Allura’s lilting voice reaches his ears and turns his attention to her, her face still alight with excitement. Her body language adjusts, showing her hope to make this a conversation between just the two of them as she leans closer to him, mouth nearly brushing his cheek. Keith finds himself terrifyingly aware of her breath against his skin and barely resists turning his face away. “Please tell me you’re as thrilled as I am for this voyage. I’d feel quite foolish if only I were making such a fuss.”

Christ, he needs to keep it together.

“There’s no need for that, Allura,” Keith replies in what he hopes is a reassuring tone, patting her hand where it rests on his forearm. His gaze trails over to watch Lord Alfor pass the attendants their tickets then gesture to himself, Keith, and Allura as he speaks to them in an authoritative boom. “This is certainly something to be marvel at.”

“Oh, good,” Allura says, a bit quieter than before, and Keith glances at her out of the corner of his eye. It’s hard to tell because of the shade covering her face from the brim of her hat and the dark complexion of her skin, but it almost looks like she’s blushing. Her grip on his arm tightens a fraction more, and Keith focuses on breathing.

Ahead, Alfor is waving them on as he begins up the gangway, Sendak ever-present at his side, so Keith puts one foot in front of the other and leads Allura to the small set of stairs leading onto the ramp. He extends his hand to allow her to take it and step onto the ramp ahead of him before trailing after her with a nod to the attendant standing beside him.

The boards creak beneath his feet as he starts to make his way up the gangway, and he can’t help but cast a nervous glance behind him at Shiro, who has dutifully reappeared at his back. Shiro has both of his hands trailing along the wooden rail on either side of the ramp, as if reassuring himself that they will be enough to catch him if he slips, and his eyes keep darting nervously to either side of him at the water below. Biting back a small smile, Keith turns back and watches his steps carefully as he continues on, a bit more comforted by the fact that even Shiro feels the same apprehension as himself, even if it does seem a bit silly.

They’re about halfway up the ramp when it begins shaking like an earthquake beneath their feet. It all happens in a matter of seconds, but somehow, it feels like everything happens in slow motion.

Allura letting out a gasp, stumbling. Keith lunging forward, hand outstretched, trying to make sure that she doesn’t fall. His boot catching the lip of the boards. Tripping. Tilting. Shiro’s cry of alarm. A body rushing past him, slamming into Keith’s shoulder, knocking him sideways. Terror flooding his veins, stomach plummeting as he twists, reaching out, grasping at air. Feeling the edge of the wooden railing biting into his back as he begins to tilt towards the water fifty feet below.

Suddenly, all he sees is blue.

The next thing Keith knows, he’s no longer falling. His right arm and shoulder are aching from the forceful pull that saved him from plummeting into the harbor, and for a moment, he’s sure that it was Shiro who caught him. He knows that he’s standing upright with a warm palm gripping his own and an arm around his back, steadying him. His face is being crushed against someone’s throat, and that’s when Keith’s brain starts to lag, struggling to understand what just happened and who caught him before he fell, because this isn’t Shiro. He becomes hyperaware of the way the person’s pulse is pounding against his cheek, a hummingbird thrum of a quickened heartbeat.

Keith starts to burn.

Because the chest he’s been pulled against is like the ones that refuse to stop infiltrating his dreams, and the breathy chuckle that has just brushed his ear isn’t in the pitch of a woman’s tone.

Keith shoves away hard, nearly falling over once again in his haste to put some distance between himself and the man who caught him. His breath is coming out in harsh pants, unable to draw enough oxygen into the lungs that have shriveled inside his chest, and that’s when he sees the blue again. Captivating irises the color of the ocean below them, set upon an evenly stunning face that is flushed in surprise. Or Keith assumes it’s surprise, but he doesn’t really have another moment to think about it when the man opens his mouth and ruins it all.

“That’s how you thank the guy that just saved your life?”

The man’s eyebrows arch high on his forehead, as if judging Keith for nearly falling into the harbor. Keith’s nostrils flare, irritation broiling under his skin at the audacity of this commoner, who is so clearly not first class in his ratty coat, worn leather boots, and stained shirt.

“You mean after being the one to endanger it?” Keith snaps back, his fingers finding the hem of his waistcoat to yank it down in an attempt to look less rumpled. He can feel Shiro hovering at his back, ready to intervene, but waves him off. “I thought commoners such as yourself had a separate gangway to board the ship so they couldn’t be a disturbance, like you so _clearly_ are.”

The man’s head snaps back as though Keith had slapped him. Immediately, a cold look descends on the once playful expression he bore. “Well. If I’d known you’d be this ungrateful, I would’ve let you fall in.”

“ _Ungrateful?_ ” Keith shouts, taking a step forward. He doesn’t know what he was planning to do; perhaps strangle the insolence out of the man, perhaps pull him closer. It terrifies him that he’s even considering the second option, but thankfully, one of the ship’s attendants intervenes at just the right moment.

“Sir, this is the walkway for first class passengers _only_ ,” the attendant explains, pushing the stranger’s fallen bag into his hands before ushering him back down the plank towards his large but terrified looking comrade waiting at the bottom. “You must board further on down!”

“Alright, alright!” The guy whines, brushing the attendant off before hiking his pack over his shoulder. He makes it back down to the cobblestones and says something to his friend, casting a glance back up the ramp to where Shiro is now fluttering around Keith in distress, checking to make sure he’s okay. Keith isn’t paying attention. He can’t when those eyes have caught Keith’s stare once again, holding him hostage.

The entire world just… stops.

“Keith?”

Allura’s voice shatters the moment, reality washing over Keith like ice water down his back. She’s at his side, fussing over him and straightening his collar and running her hands down his shirt, thanking God that he’s not hurt. He tries to ignore the tightness in his chest at her worry and nods when she asks if he’s alright, allowing her and Shiro to get it out of their system.

But the hair on the back of his neck is rising, a tingle that he can’t ignore. Unable to stop himself, Keith glances over his shoulder to where the man and his friend are being pointed further down the harbor to where they were meant to board in the first place. They’re not paying attention to Keith anymore, but he still can’t turn away, can’t pull his eyes from the back of the man’s head, the sweep of his shoulders. He’s waiting for something, has no idea what or why, but he’s frozen where he stands.

 _Don’t look back_. The thought comes unbidden to the forefront of his mind. _Don’t be thinking of me too. Don’t look back_.

Because it’ll be so much worse if he looks back.

He watches the man shrug at his big friend and say something with a smile while looking only slightly chagrined. It seems as though he’s completely forgotten about the commotion he made, ready and willing to continue on to where he's meant to be and leave Keith and the rest of them in his wake without a second thought.

But then, he looks back.

“Mr. Kogane,” Lord Alfor booms from the top of the gangway, his words slipping down Keith’s skin like poison with the distaste in his tone. “We shouldn’t continue to hold up the other passengers. Allura. Come.”

It physically pains Keith to drop his gaze to his feet, already feeling something hollow out inside of his chest from the loss of eye contact with the man that both put his life in danger then saved it. And isn’t it strange, that he should want the man’s attention at all?

Keith feels Shiro’s presence beside him once again and shakes himself out of his thoughts, turning back to his fiancée. Allura is looking between her father and Keith, worry turning down the corners of her mouth, hesitating. Shaking his head kindly, Keith gestures for her to walk ahead of him, just wanting her to forget the commotion, to forget about him. He’s desperate to get everyone’s eyes off him. He can feel their stares crawling on him like spiders, and it’s making his hands tremble.

What if they know?

“Come on, sir. You’ll be alright,” Shiro murmurs at Keith’s side, nudging him forward gently. Nodding briskly, Keith runs a hand through his bangs with a sharp breath and forces himself to begin to walk once more.

He does everything in his power to stop thinking about blue.

 

 

L.

“I _told_ you it was the wrong ramp, Lance!” Hunk moans pitifully for the third time in the last minute, yanking the brim of his hat lower over his eyes in shame. “I can’t believe you just did that!”

Lance isn’t listening. His attention is caught on the guy he nearly killed, but then oh-so-classily saved. He had just turned to look over his shoulder, curiosity and something else—something warm and red inside of him that was whispering for him to see the man one more time—and found that he was already staring right at Lance. Lance’s heart has plummeted into the deepest pit in his stomach, lost somewhere around his feet. Their gazes hold, and the feeling is so intense that it almost hurts to breathe.

Everything around him fades into the background, the clattering and shouts of the crowd milling around turning to smoke and dust, and all Lance can see is _him_. All he can feel is the phantom outline of how the man’s body had fit against his, and the way those fingers were gripping his own, and how he wanted it to last.

He doesn’t know why he wanted it to last.

Later, he would wonder what the air smelled like, or where exactly he was standing on the cobblestones. All of his senses just seem to stop working, overwhelmed by the connection he’s caught in, snared like a fly in a web. And, despite the distance between them, Lance thinks he can see the color of the man’s eyes. A shade of indigo that edges into violet when the sunlight catches the side of his face. Lance’s heart feels too big for his chest, the edges building and pushing at his ribs with impatient hands to make room for itself. It’s then he belatedly realizes that, for the first time in his life, he has been struck dumb.

The moment is shattered when the incredible eyes that are holding him captive look down and away. With the connection is severed, Lance feels like a marionette whose strings have been cut, an odd sort of emptiness filling his chest as he watches the man be ushered up the ramp and away from the filth of the Southampton streets.

Away from Lance.

“Honestly!” Hunk is still going, apparently, remaining endearingly oblivious to Lance’s internal crisis. At least it draws Lance out of the undecipherable chaos in his head, dragging his focus back to the conversation at hand with a quick shake of his head to snap out of it. “What were you thinking?!”

Clearing his throat, Lance shifts his bag higher on his back and forces himself to begin to fight his way into the crowd towards the ramp they were meant to be boarding in the first place. Better to focus on what’s right in front of him instead of something he could never have.

“Okay, so I accidentally went up the first class walkway instead of the third class one,” he calls over his shoulder at Hunk, trying to keep his tone light as he’s jostled back and forth in the near-suffocating masses around him. “Definitely not one of my finer moments. But at least we met some new friends, am I right?”

“ _No_ , no, you are very not right, Lance. You are very wrong.” Hunk whines back, gnawing on his thumbnail as he uses his berth to forge a path ahead of Lance, the crowd parting easily to give him room and leaving Lance in the dust with how quickly he’s moving. “Those people were probably royalty or something and you nearly knocked one into the harbor because we’re late and you think they’re now our _friends_?”

“I’m messing with you, Hunk.” Lengthening his strides to keep pace, Lance claps a hand on his friend’s shoulder with a grin. “You’re so uptight, man! It’s fine. They’ll forget about me the moment they sit their silk-suited butts down and have a spot of brandy.”

Hunk lets out another moan of dismay, setting Lance off in a fit of laughter as they fall into the line for steerage boarding. People keep bumping into them, rushing around either to get a better view of the ship or to find their own place in line, but somehow, Lance doesn’t mind. He feels like he’s in a bit of a daze now, just moving forward on autopilot when the line shuffles him and Hunk into the path of the health inspectors who immediately shove his hat into his chest before pulling his head down to run a comb none-too-gently through his hair. Despite being manhandled and patted down and generally treated like cattle before being pushed to the ticket line, Lance doesn't mind, a strange smile on his face the entire time.

The day has barely started, and Lance already knows that this voyage will change him.

He can feel it in his heart, in the very meat of his soul. His entire life, he’s searched for the extraordinary. Travelling so far from home pursuing a dream that was so daunting to all the other men in his hometown that they choose simpler paths, he had always thought that at the end of this road would be his reason. Reason for being, reason for breathing, reason he’s here at all.

Maybe this was the answer. Maybe it was all leading to this, to a game of pure luck that turned into a gamble Lance didn’t know he could win. But he did. He did win. And he’s here now, tilting his head back and inhaling the smoke that is pouring from the four smokestacks running the length of the largest floating vessel on the seas of this earth. If this isn’t fate, he doesn’t know what else it could possibly be.

Hunk is now waving vigorously in front of Lance’s face, forcing him back to reality once more because apparently it’s their turn to hand over their tickets, if the expectant hand the attendant is snapping at Lance is any indicator. He fumbles the paper out of his vest pocket, sweat making his fingers sticky as he hands it over. Fear spikes his pulse in his throat and suddenly Lance is terrified that they’ll be turned away, the tickets false, and his dreams will be shattered all over again. He’s so sure that this luck won’t last that he’s stunned when the attendant punches his ticket and shoves back into his hands, mouth hanging open in shock. Hunk physically drags Lance up the proper gangway this time, continuing his rant about Lance’s idiocy the entire time until they both step into the belly of the _Titanic_.

They are instantly swept into a current of other steerage passengers, all pouring down staircase after staircase into the lower levels of the ship. It’s pure chaos, with families clinging to each other and squinting at the signs nailed to the walls, handbooks of English in their hands, with shouts of comrades running into one another around corners, with an electricity of exhilaration underlying every inch of the confusion. Hunk and Lance stay together best they can, getting pushed around numerous twists and turns that end up making them quite lost before Hunk lets out a strangled hoot of excitement and points at a sign just down the hall that turns into their saving grace.

It takes them twenty minutes to actually find their room, and another five to settle an arm-wrestling contest on who gets top bunk. Lance still thinks Hunk cheated and plans to hold a lifelong grudge about this.

After they spread their things out on their respective bunks and introduce themselves to the two very confused Frenchmen who are sharing their cabin, Lance pushes Hunk out into the hall and challenges him to take the stairs three at a time just to see if he can. They make it up onto the deck in respectable time, considering the amount of traffic milling through the halls, and burst onto the brand new decking with enough enthusiasm to startle a nearby gaggle of women. Throwing them hurried apologies, the two friends dash over to the nearest empty spot by the railings and lean over to get a view of the crowd on the harbor below.

“Bye!” Hunk bellows, waving both arms at the people lining the streets below. “I’ll miss you!”

Laughing, Lance holds onto Hunk’s shoulder to help himself up onto the first bar of the railing, then wraps his other arm around the post to his right. He joins in, waving overhead at everyone not as lucky as them to board a ship as spectacular as this.

“Poor bastards, eh?” Lance calls down to Hunk over the cheers and calls filling the air. Hunk’s returning grin makes Lance’s heart soar. Closing his eyes, Lance slowly spreads his arms wide, opening his chest to the wind whipping at his clothes. They haven’t even left shore yet and he already feels like he’s flying.

Not a heartbeat later, the _Titanic_ ’s horn lets out a deafening blow, signalling the beginning of their voyage across the Atlantic. Letting out an enormous whoop, Lance jumps backwards and lands on the deck with a thump. He’s practically vibrating out of his skin and his cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, but he can’t help it.

He’s going home.

“So whaddya say, Hunk?” Lance elbows his friend and tilts his head at the staircase they just came barreling up. “Think you can take four on the way down?”

 

K.

Up on the first class deck, Keith is watching the water break against the sides of the ship. The enormous spray of white foam, the spattering of droplets, the wake the ship is leaving behind, and the strong chugging of the engines propelling them out of the Southampton harbor and into the yawning horizon before them all should be humbling. Keith thinks so, thinks it just as much as he is certain that he is supposed to be fawning over the monstrosity of the thing that is taking him towards certain death.

Inner death, anyway, one that will cause his soul to wither and his heart to harden. Living a lie. Pretending that he is everything that the people around him believes he is and should be. Acting as if there isn’t some sickness brewing inside of him, festering his thoughts and twisting his emotions in ways he was always told were so very _wrong_.

But how can something that wrong feel so a part of him?

“Keith?”

Sucking in a sharp breath, Keith whirls around, knuckles white on the railing behind him. It’s just Shiro, his hand paused mid-air as if he was about to touch Keith’s shoulder. They both stand there, frozen, and Keith knows Shiro is waiting for his next move to either allow him to stay by Keith’s side or to dismiss him. Keith gives Shiro a short nod of consent and turns back to the afternoon sun and the painter’s palette of the water, hoping to avoid the conversation he knows is coming.

“Are you alright, sir?” Shiro asks tentatively, approaching the railing to Keith’s left. Keith knows he means well, that he is only vested in looking after Keith and being a shoulder for him to lean on, but there are just some things Keith knows he will never be able to burden his friend with.

“More than alright, Shiro,” Keith replies, filling his voice with the pompous air he was born to have in his lungs. It is who he was born to be, after all. “I’m just admiring the beginning of our journey. It’s quite a sight, don’t you think?” Keith glances over at his comrade, waiting for his approval and praying that Shiro will let the subject drop.

He does. “I’ve never been a fan of sailing myself, sir,” Shiro admits, sparing a glance at the water before fixing his gaze firmly on Keith. “It’s much too vast for me. However, this ship seems ready to take on anything these waters can throw at her, so my nerves are not as great as I expected them to be.”

“You should have stayed behind if you so fear the ocean, Shiro.” Keith crosses his arms and leans forward onto the railing, watching his friend’s face. “I never would have asked you to come if I had known.”

Shiro’s answering scoff makes Keith’s eyebrows raise. Others look down on Keith for using the term ‘friend’ instead of ‘manservant’. While it is technically what Shiro is, Keith has never seen him as anything other than a companion and confidant. That would be the result of the two of them growing up together with Shiro’s parents being in the service of Keith’s mother and father, and him following in their footsteps. In truth, Shiro’s presence has been one of the only constants in Keith’s life, and every day, he is thankful for always having Shiro to ground him.

“All due respect, Mr. Kogane,” Shiro grins, teeth catching like pearls in the sunlight. “You wouldn’t be able to pry me from your side with a crowbar.”

Even Keith can’t fight the smile creeping across his face at that. “As it should be." He then frowns slightly, giving Shiro one of his looks. "And I _told_ you not to call me that. It makes me sound like my father.”

Shiro just laughs and joins him at the railing as the harbor behind them continues to fade into a blur in the distance. Keith wants to stay out longer, finding the monotonous sound of the water and the unbroken horizon calming, but Shiro comments on the chill of the wind and how they should be getting back inside soon. With a heavy heart, Keith pushes away from the railing with numb fingertips and cheeks, allowing Shiro to guide him back below deck and into one of the lavish dining rooms where many upper class men and women are sitting for their tea and lunches.

If not for the rumble of the ship’s engines and the water slipping by outside the windows, the room could have been one of Southampton’s downtown parlors. The rich wood that covers the floors and is carved into tables and chairs is a deep, shining brown. The chandeliers tinkling overhead catch the light of the afternoon sun, making the cutlery on every napkin sparkle, never having touched the palm of a person’s hand before now, and the clock ticking on the mantlepiece to Keith’s right is showing its face to the ship’s inhabitants for the first time. Everything is new, brand new, made just for this moment.

Keith is about to suggest that they sit down for a cup of tea when a familiar laugh draws his attention to the far side of the room. His eyes dance from table to table until he sees Allura sitting at a round table, giggling behind her glove with two other ladies around her age. She doesn’t see him, thankfully, is too caught up in whatever the blonde girl is saying to her. It must be riveting because Allura leans in to hear better, her mouth parting in surprise before whispering something in return with a mischievous smile of her own. Of course she’s fitting in naturally, charming everyone around her like moths to her flame. That pit in Keith’s stomach returns, carving itself open with dirty, curved nails, and he has to turn away.

“I’m feeling a bit weary, Shiro. I think I’m going to retire until dinner.”

“Let me show you to your room, sir.” Shiro steps back and sweeps his arm towards the door on the far side of the room. “This way.”

“Thank you,” Keith says softly, his voice falling flat as he brushes past Shiro. The path to the exit suddenly seems to stretch on for miles, forcing him to pass by what feels like an infinite amount of tables on his way out. More than anything, Keith just wants to drop his head, tuck himself into his coat and blend into the background. But here, now, he is known. Keith Kogane—son, heir, orphan—and betrothed to Allura Altea.

There is no place to disappear when everyone knows your face.

So he walks with his head high, chin up, and his eyes fixed dead ahead, not meeting a single curious glance nor lingering stare.

Pretend, pretend, pretend. Pretend like he wants the money in his bank account that was put there due to a pair of faulty brakes and a bridge on a rainy night. Pretend like he wants the daughter of the earl who watches Keith’s every breath like a hawk. Pretend like he is looking forward to the light of the next day when all he wants is to be swallowed by the night.

It takes an eternity to cross the room, and the suffocating tightness in Keith’s chest doesn’t go away once the door shuts behind them. It’s still there once they reach Keith’s quarters, and he barely manages to get out his wish to be alone. Bidding his friend a short goodbye with the request of being woken for dinner, Keith shuts the door with a forced smile that he drops the moment Shiro can't see him anymore. He takes a moment to lay his forehead on the ornately carved wood, trying to measure his breaths as a throbbing ache in his temple grows in intensity, matching the sound of Shiro’s footsteps walking away.

Once he’s sure that he’s alone, Keith stumbles back from the door and grasps the edge of a dresser to help his balance as he toes off his boots. Grasping the side of his head, Keith takes two steps closer to the bed and lets himself fall face-first into one of the six feathered pillows standing against the headboard. He knows he should disrobe, knows that his clothes will be in a stay of irreparable disarray by the time he wakes, but he feels utterly drained and the pain in his head is enough to convince him not to move again. Burying his face into the pillow beneath him, Keith closes his eyes. The darkness quickly envelops him like a mother's embrace, like the one he misses so desperately, and mercifully, everything fades away.

 

.

 

Keith dreams of flying.

He dreams of soaring past a kaleidoscope of colors above rising waves, of wings of his own sprouting from his back and carrying him high into the clouds. He’s spinning, spinning up towards the sun, towards the moon and the stars that are all in the sky at the same time, blinding him. And then he’s falling, his wings turning to tatters like wet paper in the wind, and he’s screaming wordlessly as he plummets back towards the sea, the stars turning into a dizzying spiral above him.

Right before he hits the water, all he sees is blue.


	2. Fates Entwined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my readers for their patience in the posting of Chapter Two. So much has happened for me in the past several months and unfortunately, my time was not my own. It was a struggle to reach this point, but I'm determined to see this through and appreciate the kind words and comments and asks I've received through the process of finishing this chapter. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> As always, the incredible art is done by [soylante](http://soylante.tumblr.com) (previously jackalopesart). I wouldn't be able to do this without her. I love you SO much!!
> 
> Also, for anyone wondering if they can make additional art or other creations about To The Stars, YES!!!! Please do and please tag both Kelsi and I in it and/or use the tag "fic: to the stars" for us to be able to find them and cry over them with you. 
> 
> Again, thank you, and I hope that an extra long chapter helps make up for the wait. Enjoy!
> 
> Tumblr: [marmoraskeith](http://marmoraskeith.tumblr.com)  
> Artist: [soylante](http://soylante.tumblr.com)

 K.

“So. Mr. Kogane.”

Keith’s grip on the delicate glass between his fingers tightens a fraction. Taking a measured breath in through his nose, he lifts his eyes to meet the pair across the table that are fixing him with a stare colder than the ocean they’re sailing through.

“Sir?” he responds warily, raising his glass towards Lord Alfor in acknowledgement before tipping the champagne back until the rest of its contents slips over his tongue. It burns going down his throat, but he refuses to blink as he holds Alfor’s gaze and places the now-empty glass beside his dinner plate.

“You have yet to enlighten us with your plans for once we arrive in New York!” Alfor booms, leaning back in his chair at the head of the table as he waves his own glass around with a flourish, as if inviting Keith to launch into the details he knows Keith doesn’t have. “What is it exactly that you have laid out for you and your beautiful fiancée’s arrival?” He grins at Allura at that, his daughter smiling politely back.

Keith’s eyes flicker to Allura’s face at the same moment her eyes move to his, and they share a public moment of uncomfortable silence as Keith struggles to find the words to avoid this topic entirely. It’s something they’ve quarrelled over in the past between the two of them; Allura pushing to know what Keith wants, and him telling her they’ll discuss it another time. Delay after delay, anything to avoid the topic until finally, the day of reckoning has come. They’re here on the ship, sailing towards their future, and Keith still can’t find it within himself to even begin to want to plan the days that lie ahead.

Leveling his gaze at Alfor once again, Keith lets his indifferent demeanor shutter down over his expression. It’s always better to look bored than terrified. Alfor is like a shark in the water, scenting fear from a hundred miles away, spending every heartbeat in that iron chest of his waiting for a moment to strike at his prey.

“You know me, sir,” Keith says. “Always one for spontaneity.”

Chuckles scatter around the table. They, along with six other couples, are all seated in the main first class dining room for the dinner service this evening. Everything surrounding them is pristine, from the chandeliers twinkling over their heads to the silver gleaming beneath their hands to the flowers in full bloom in the crystal vase directly in front of where Keith and Allura are sitting to Alfor’s right.

There’s a pleasant chatter filling the room from the tables around them, mixing in with the sound of silverware clinking against plates and bowls. It doesn’t seem like it could ever be a threatening atmosphere. A lavish dining room, filled to the brim with the finest furniture and glassware and decorations alike while being aboard a floating wonder, of all places? No.

And yet anxiety is crawling down Keith’s neck like a chill and is wrapping sickening hands around his heart, his stomach pulling down low with a feeling of dread.

He has a standard to maintain and a name to uphold. He has a part to play in this life, this monotonous and suffocating hell of a life. Up until this point, he’s been able to hold it together, to plaster on that fake, close-lipped smile and nod and do as he’s told and not rock to boat, don’t disturb others, just pretend and pretend and pretend some more.

Pretend to survive. Pretend to love.

But for whatever reason, all it took to undo Keith’s life’s work of protecting himself from himself and everyone around him was boarding this goddamn ship. How could it be that such a simple action could be what does him in? He’s unravelling at an alarming rate, spinning out of control with no idea how to stop or how to pull himself back together, and soon all that will be left of him will be an empty spool.

“You? Spontaneous?” Alfor repeats with disdain dripping from his words. He doesn’t even try to disguise it. Those eyes, so cold and calculating, haven’t left Keith’s face. He can feel the holes they are burning into his skin.

“Sir.” The one worded acknowledgment is all that Keith can manage with his throat tightening so much that he can barely breathe.

“No, no,” Alfor chuckles, leaning forward until both elbows are on the table, his shoulders bunching up like a leopard ready to pounce. “You’ve always been quite the planner, Mr. Kogane. Always one to think ahead, to get it on the books so you know who and what and when and where. So you’re telling me that with your wedding, with what is undoubtedly going to be one of the most important days of your life, you’re just letting fate take the reins?”

Keith can feel his heart in his throat, slowly solidifying into a rock that he just can’t swallow away. Blood roars in his ears, sounding like the waves on a deserted beach, and all he knows is that everyone’s eyes are on him. “It’s not exactly like that, no—”

“Then share away!” Alfor interrupts with another wave of his wine glass. “Enlighten us with your plans to make my princess the happiest woman in the world.” The pause that hangs over the table following Alfor’s invitation is palpable, sizzling on Keith’s skin like it’s acid. Then Alfor has to open his mouth once more. “Unless there’s some reason the plans haven’t been made?”

Ice rockets through Keith’s veins, locking his muscles up and freezing the words in his throat. All he can do is sit there and stare back at Alfor and think, _he knows. He knows. He knows. He knows._

“Father—” Allura’s interjection sounds distant to Keith’s ears, like he’s underwater and everyone else is above the surface. Alfor’s booming laughter seems to shake the room, leading the other dinner guests out of their bubbles of silent confusion and into laughing hesitantly with him. Because none of them comprehend the implications in Alfor’s words or tone of voice. None of them know Keith well enough to understand what Alfor is hinting at, with his wonderful daughter seated an arm’s length away, no less.

“Oh, I’m merely jesting with him, my dear,” Alfor says reassuringly, and if Keith’s vision wasn’t blurring, he would assume Alfor just leaned forward to pat Allura’s hand. “I promise, no more wedding talk at the dinner table.”

Allura’s half-hearted laugh draws Keith’s attention to her, everything around him suddenly sharpening. He can sense her discomfort, his eyes flitting to the way her fingers are fiddling with the napkin in her lap and then start to play with the bottom of the white dinner gloves she has on, these sharp, nervous touches. His hand stretches out on its own volition, covering her hands with his own in a tight squeeze that pulls her eyes to his. Keith forces a small smile onto his face and tries to act like the room isn’t starting to spin.

“I believe I can speak for us both when I say that Allura and I can’t wait to begin our lives together once we arrive in America,” Keith says, his tone taking on a comforting lilt that softens the frown curving down Allura’s mouth. It’s almost terrifying how good he is at lying. “And I think we’ve both agreed to let things work out as they are meant to be. Because we have time.” He squeezes her hand tighter and his smile grows wider despite the stutter in his heartbeat. “Right, dear?”

Allura’s eyelashes flutter a moment, her cheeks growing pink with a blush. “R-Right,” Allura breathes out. Her eyes are shining and wide, caught in Keith’s gaze in a way that adds another ache to Keith’s heart, throwing one more stone onto the pile weighing down his shoulders. There’s so much adoration there, a breathless schoolgirl love that is as real as Allura’s hands fumbling to cup Keith’s palm between her own. A kind of love that Keith can never return, despite how much he aches with the wish that he could reciprocate with everything that Allura deserves. “That’s right. We have time. That’s all that really matters.”

“Bless your hearts,” Miss Ethel Flora croons from her seat across from Allura, patting her hand over her heart. “The two of you are just so sweet together.”

“Why, thank you, Ethel, you’re too kind,” Allura says, squeezing Keith’s hand tightly. Clearing her throat, Allura turns to a gentleman at the other end of the table, asking him about something with his new business that she’d heard him mention earlier, redirecting the attention away from the two of them.

Keith is so grateful that he can’t begin to put it to words. He still feels Alfor’s glare holding him hostage like a steel knife at his neck, waiting for the right time to push forward for the final blow, and all he wants is to escape. His stomach is rioting, cramping and knotting so harshly that Keith knows he won’t be taking another bite of food for the rest of the night.

He endures the small talk for another appetizer round before he announces that he’s feeling unwell and must retire to bed earlier than usual.

“Do you need me to come with you? Bring you anything?” Allura asks quietly, catching his arm gently as he places his napkin from his lap to the table.

“I will call Shiro if I need him, Allura, I promise. But don’t worry, I’ll be fine. It’s probably just me getting used to the sea is all.”

Shiro, who Keith sent away to enjoy his dinner with the other valets. Who Keith had no intention of calling at all.

“The sea, eh?”

Keith forces his gaze back over to Alfor. It physically pains him to have to leave right now. For him to give Alfor even the smallest illusion of winning or that his words have had some sort of impact on him is enraging, red tinging the edges of Keith’s vision. He would give kidney and limb to be able to say something to Alfor, to tell him off about how wrong he is and ask if a disgrace such as himself should even begin to try to judge others, but there will never be such a time or place. It’s as though someone has shoved a key between Keith’s lips and locked them shut, and all he can do is smile politely as he takes blow after blow on the chin.

It’s exhausting. _He’s_ exhausted, completely drained, and the emotions that are rolling around in his belly are growing louder and darker and more poisonous by the second. He has to leave.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Keith says, barely managing to keep his composure as he rises from his seat. “I hope you will all accept my apologies.”

Both Alfor and Allura are watching him, but each has a very different look in their eyes. Allura’s gaze is weighted, a mix between the look she gets when she worries for his well-being and the one she gets when he and her father have taken their bickering a step too far.

And then there’s Alfor. Sitting at the head of the table, power rolling off his broad chest in waves as he watches Keith with enough scrutiny that he feels naked. Exposed. As if Alfor has cracked open his chest with his bare hands and seen the dirty secret that has carved itself on the back of Keith’s ribs.

Once more, Keith is hit with the gut-wrenching fear that Alfor _knows_ , and the breath is promptly knocked straight out of his lungs.

Everyone around them remain painfully oblivious, his and Alfor’s little scene forgotten for now until it serves as tea time gossip at tomorrow’s luncheon. The table titters their goodbyes to Keith when he steps away, his presence the last thing on their minds as the next round of dinner service is presented by the multitude of servers reaching around them with silver platters on stark white gloves.

Clenching his jaw, Keith maneuvers his way past the servers, forcing his feet to go at the measured pace of someone who has time, of someone who isn’t on the verge of breaking into a run to escape the demons sinking their teeth into his neck.

What he can’t control is his breathing, how it is speeding up, matching the building pace of his heart that is frantically punching the side of his neck and making his head spin as he finally steps out of the dining quarters. Keith’s footsteps grow uneven as he moves on, his sense of balance becoming increasingly off-kilter.

It’s when his hand wraps around the door handle that leads to the first class sleeping quarters that he completely breaks down. The moment he pushes the door open, something inside of him splinters and he can’t see anymore through the tears that are flooding his eyes. His breathing hitches, catching tight in his throat and suddenly, he’s suffocating, choking on stagnant air. The one thing that’s supposed to sustain him is surely killing him.

It’s all he can do to put one foot in front of the other. Keith barely knows where he’s going, only peripherally aware of the soft thumps his shoes make as he moves down the hall. The signs pointing the way to his cabin are too blurry to make out with the tears in his eyes, yet somehow, he manages to find his way and stumble into his room.

It registers in his mind that it’s his by the solitary leather suitcase standing at the end of the bed, the only thing he brought with him on his trip. The bag is barely full despite the numerous belongings in the family home he left behind. He had no interest in bringing more than was necessary, and that—combined with his dissociative disinterest in nearly everything around him in his daily life—led to this suitcase being the only thing in his hands when he walked onto this ship. Just another testimony of the feeling of isolation currently crippling his soul.

Devastation slams into Keith like a wave the moment he steps into his room, the feeling hitting him so hard that he stumbles back, colliding with the door behind him. It slams shut with a heavy thump, the wood hard against his spine as he slowly slides down into a heap on the ground. Wrapping his arms around his legs and burying his face against his knees drains the last remaining energy he has in his body. Keith hugs himself tightly, praying that he doesn’t shatter right there on the floor. Maybe if he holds himself together, he won’t break.

Blunt nails dig harshly into the meat of his arms in an attempt to pull his mind from the terror still gnawing at his heart. But it doesn’t work and the terror grows, its teeth growing bigger, sharper, slowly shredding him from the inside out.

And he’s alone.

He’s completely alone.

Keith can feel the scream rise within him, a burning swell of heat and tears that are scalding his throat. He tries to tamp it back down, to swallow away the fear and rage building inside him along with all of the other horrid emotions that he’s always managed to tuck away in the past.

There is a hurricane inside him, one that has lived there for so long that he doesn’t know who he is without it. All he knows is that if he lets the storm loose, if he allows it to break free from the cage of his ribs, it will destroy him. Completely and utterly.

What kind of a life can one live if it is spent being terrified of yourself?

But that’s exactly it.

Keith is terrified.

He has been since the first time he realized that something inside of him was different than the other boys around him.

It does something to a person, that isolation. To feel such an innate sense of being out of place at such a young age was disconcerting, confusing, and did nothing but plague an already tumultuous mind.

Since he was thirteen years old—the age at which he learned how his society and his family thought of people like him without realizing he _was_ one of _them_ —all Keith has ever felt is that he’s been stuck in a tailspin. He’s yanked at the controls, bargained with God, even prayed. He has done _everything_ possible to make himself feel the way he is meant to feel in order to pull himself out of this death spiral.

But nothing he did mattered.

Here he is, still trapped, still unable to accept this part of himself that has pushed its roots so deep into his heart that it would kill him to pull them out. Because accepting it means certain death.

All he can do every morning when he wakes is lie there and feel those roots continue to spread through his blood and his bones. And he knows there’s no way out.

There’s no way out.

That’s the moment when the storm inside of Keith breaks loose.

With a wrenching sob, Keith attacks the collar of his shirt, fingers clawing to loosen the tie that’s been choking him, nails scratching long red lines into the skin of his throat, so desperate to breathe that he doesn’t pay attention to the way he rips his shirt half-open, buttons scattering across the carpet with dull thumps.

Hands shaking, Keith yanks at his dinner jacket, unbridled panic building inside of him when one of the sleeves catches on his wrist and won’t come off. He pulls at it frantically, just needing it to be off of him, needs it _off_ , it can’t touch him anymore, it’s _too much_ , and with one more pull, it comes free and he’s finally able to throw it aside.

Pushing to his feet, Keith stumbles, momentarily disoriented by the tears blinding him. His hip slams into the dresser to his right, a sharp pain that echoes in waves down his leg all the way to his feet, but it’s nothing compared to the dark rush of emotions rolling through him.

He feels like he’s standing on a beach during a hurricane with twenty foot waves crashing into him, again and again and again, a relentless maelstrom that batters him so hard he can’t even think straight. It’s so overwhelming, so terrifying, that Keith lashes out, barely registering that it’s his hands that are sweeping across the mahogany dresser top to spill nearly all of the contents to the floor with an enormous crash.

A broken sob constricts his lungs, and it hurts so badly, _Jesus_ , he just wants to breathe, but the pain is the only thing Keith can focus on. That, and the way his heart is shattering inside of his ribs, cutting him with its splinters. His breaths are leaving him in ragged gasps yet he still can’t get enough air. His hands are flat on the dresser bearing his full weight, legs are trembling so badly that he doesn’t understand how he’s still upright.

Slowly raising his head, Keith blinks rapidly to get rid of the tears blurring his vision. He is face-to-face with the completely undone version of himself. The grand mirror sitting atop of the vanity he’s leaning on is mocking him, its frame twisting up and around so elegantly, reminding him of the life he’s come from, the life he’s supposed to uphold.

Each choppy exhale rattles out of his lungs and fogs the glass before him. He looks wild, his hair falling out of the leather tie he’d put it in long ago, bangs sticking to his forehead and cheeks from the sweat and tears on his skin. His shirt hangs half open, missing the top three buttons from his manic episode a moment ago, baring his chest and collarbones. There’s a blotchy flush creeping up his chest to his neck, where bright red claw marks are trailing down his throat. In horrid contrast, his cheeks are the pallor that one would regularly find on a corpse.

Keith is fixated on this image before him, locking gazes with himself as he searches his own irises for some sort of answer to the wires crossing in his head, but there’s nothing there except dilating pupils and fear.

Fear. Always fear, clouding the color that his mother’s eyes had once been. A blueish gray so rich and deep that it verges into violet. A color now that he will never see again except in his own reflection or in memories that are still too painful to recall.

Keith can’t bear it any longer, can’t stand to stare into his mother’s eyes and see such insurmountable pain in one of the last reminders he has of her. He wants to look away but he can’t, he can’t, he _can’t—_

Something hard and sharp shatters across his knuckles, followed by a dull throbbing ache that spikes up his arm all the way to his shoulder. Keith blinks, then blinks again to try and focus. He can’t see his reflection anymore. The mirror is completely fractured, and it’s his fist sitting in the center of the frame that once held the complete pane of glass.

The tinkling of shards falling and hitting the wood barely registers as he pulls his arm back and flexes open his trembling hand. Shiny particles of glass twinkle in the mauled remnants of his knuckles amongst the pooling blood, his skin completely sliced open.

Keith watches as the blood starts to slip down his fingertips and around the side of his palm, dripping morbidly to the pristine cream-colored carpet below. His hand is suspended in front of him like an accusation, the suspect of ruining one more thing around him. Keith doesn’t even recognize it as his own. It’s a terrifying feeling, one that makes his stomach dip and his throat tighten.

He averts his gaze when it becomes too much and drops his hand to his side. Out of sight, out of mind, the pain still stubbornly radiating into his gut, but it’s easy to ignore in comparison to the black hole swallowing his heart at this very moment.

Keith sets his good hand against the side of the dresser, still barely managing to hold up his own weight. There’s so many pieces from the mirror scattered on the dark wood before him, each of them reflecting a portion of his face like a demented jigsaw puzzle.

Another rib-cracking sob breaks from Keith’s lips, and he turns his face into his shoulder and bites into it as he squeezes his eyes shut and wishes it all away. Wishes he could go back in time and beg his parents not to go on that drive, wishes he wasn’t a pariah wearing the skin of a gentleman, wishes for the pain to just end.

Opening his eyes takes monumental effort, but when Keith’s gaze finally focuses on what’s before him, his heart gives a small kick in his chest. Before him, sitting on a smart silver platter on the far corner of the dresser, is a and be in that car with his parents. It would have solved everything.

Stomach lurching, Keith turns from his shoulder and covers his face with his hand, dragging his palm down over his mouth. Through the blur of unshed tears, something catches Keith’s eye. A swell of curved crystal leading up to a stout neck and down to a glistening, round body. It’s a decanter of brandy, the ones that come complimentary in each room, and right now it’s taunting him from its tray that he had managed to miss on his impulsive sweep of the dresser top.

Unlatching his teeth from the meat of his shoulder, Keith straightens. He’s still shaking as he reaches forward with his bloody hand and lifts the decanter from its tray, tilting it slightly to watch the way the brown alcohol sloshes against the ornate crystal. A droplet of blood slips onto the neck of the bottle and slowly trails down the side, a grotesque contrast to the paler liquid inside. Suddenly, all Keith wants is to burn.

The stopper on the decanter is off in an instant, the rim of crystal pressed against his lips like a heated kiss a moment later. The scorching stream of the alcohol scalding its way down his throat is the remedy he never thought he’d need.

It’s the longest pull Keith’s ever taken of drink, and his eyes are tearing up, his stomach starting to lurch, but he needs one more second, one more heartbeat of something hurting him more than the pain inside his heart.

He gasps harshly when he slams the decanter back on the dresser, nearly half empty now, and Keith’s stomach heaves again as he starts to cough violently against the rawness of his throat. Gritting his teeth against it, Keith tightens his grip on the bottle, his hand screaming in pain, and then his vision goes red.

Keith feels like he’s in limbo, completely disconnected from his body as he watches his arm curve back and hurl the bottle at the wall across the room. It explodes with a shatter loud enough to make him stumble back a step, the sound too sharp against his ears. Alcohol is slipping down the wallpaper in trails that look like grotesque teardrops, darkening the wall while the crystal lies broken and splintered across the carpet in jagged pieces.

This was him. He did that. Another thing ruined, another thing tainted by his hands. The same ones that still look foreign to him as they hover in front of his face, his fingers shaking as they slowly turn back and forth.

He knows they’re his own. Knows the scar on the underside of his right wrist is from a fishing accident he had as a child while on a trip with his father. Knows there’s a freckle in the soft valley between his middle and ring finger on his left hand. Knows that he broke his thumb punching a child who made fun of his friend for having a scuff on his shoes when he was ten years old.

But the thing is that everything he knows is clashing with the overflowing terror in his veins. Nothing makes sense, nothing at all. It’s like his world is shaking and tilting around him, unrecognizable in this hazy heightened state, and it’s _too much_.

With a strangled sob, Keith shoves his hands into his hair and starts pulling at the strands, begging the sharp prickles of pain to ground him, to pull him out of this, to make it stop.

He’s losing his fucking mind.

The walls feel like they’re closing in on him and all of the air in the room turns heavy and humid, clogging in his throat despite each desperate gasp his lungs make. His fingers clutch at the front of his shirt, tugging at the fabric weakly. He needs to breathe. He _can’t breathe_.

That’s when he starts to run. Feet tripping over nothing, heart pounding in his chest, blood screaming in his veins, all of it colliding together in a whirlwind that batters his already precarious thoughts. He has no mind as to where he’s running to, isn’t thinking about the fact that no matter where he goes, someone will find him. All he knows is that he has to run, to try and get away from the seething darkness that is polluting his mind.

Keith throws himself out of his room and straight into the wall opposite his door. His shoulder aches from the impact, but it’s immediately pushed to the back of his mind as he takes off once more, careening around corners and bends carelessly, unable to slow down even when he accidentally slams into the shoulders of couples who are passing by on their way to retire for the evening, even when they cry out in alarm.

His chest is heaving as he runs, feet slamming into the floor beneath him, but no matter where he turns, he’s in the labyrinth of hallways and rooms that all look alike. Keith can’t stop shuddering against the cold sweat weighing down his limbs, his skin feeling tacky because of it. His breaths leave him in heaving pants as he looks around, desperate for an exit, desperate to breathe in something other than stale air and fresh paint.

There. Stark white sign with bold arrows pointing to the nearest staircase. With a barely concealed sob, Keith breaks into a run until he reaches the stairwell and begins hauling himself up the steps, legs trembling with exhaustion.

When he finally bursts out onto the upper deck, his stumbling footsteps and forward momentum drives him straight into the railing at the edge of the ship. It bends hims in half over the top of the metal, his face parallel with the writhing waters below before the vertigo hits and he wheels backwards with a choked gasp.

Fresh air, cold and biting, finally fills his lungs. Keith covers his face with his hands, blacking out his vision as he focuses all of his energy on sucking in deep, shuddering breaths as he` silently begs for everything to stop. He just wants it all to _stop_.

Slowly, his fingers trail down his cheeks before dropping away from his face completely. Keith stands there alone on the deck and looks out at the dark waves passing by as he continues to tremble, the silver sheen of the moon’s reflection painting the water in a ghostly light. Two steps forward and he’s at the railing again, hands gripping the freezing metal as a harsh gust of wind bites into his skin and whips at his clothes. The ragged knuckles of his right hand sting in the open air.

After taking in a deep breath, Keith’s eyes drop down to the hull of the ship, watching the frothing white foam of the water against the side of the _Titanic_ where she is cutting through the ocean like a knife through butter.

It suddenly all makes sense. Keith knows what he has to do.

It’s late enough that there aren’t many bodies wandering the decks, and Keith gives a passing thought of thanks for that as he takes the stairs two at a time from the first class deck down to the second level and breaks into a sprint.

Certainly, there’s sailors and crewman milling about their posts, probably desperate for a hot tea to warm their hands and bellies and maybe a jacket to cut the wind that is snapping at Keith’s skin with icy fingers, but they’ve seen an overload of excitement from passengers on this boat today. They most likely won’t think anything of a man running the length of the deck towards the stern of the ship.

Down to the third class deck now, Keith pushes his muscles so hard that his entire body is aching. His muscles are clenching against the cold and his legs are numb from the vibrations of his boots slapping the hardwood, but still, he runs. His breaths leave him in sharp bursts that sometimes contort into sobs, the pained sounds echoing in his ears like haunting reminders of his weakness. That he’s chosen _this_ , the coward’s way out, here of all places.

Guilt closes his throat and tears blur his vision, nearly running him straight into a bench nearby. He grabs the back of the bench before he runs into it, stumbling slightly before he uses his grip to push away with a gasp, forcing himself back in his dead sprint as the desperation for everything to end swallows him even more. He thinks he hears a sound, someone saying something, but his heartbeat is pounding too loud in his ears for him to even begin to wonder about it.

The deck in front of him suddenly opens up completely, the entire horizon just a dark sky full of stars and the ocean below it.

He’s reached the stern.

As if lead is suddenly weighing down the heels of his boots, Keith stumbles to a halt and stands frozen ten feet from the stark while railing lining the back curve of the boat that overlooks the propellers. He can see the enormous wake the ship is leaving behind her, the upset waters that turn white in their rage of being disturbed.

There’s the tang of salt in the air, and Keith is left wondering if it’s from the sea or if the tears on his face have something to do with it instead. The cold trails those tears have carved down his cheeks are only serving as reminders for why he must do this. Of why he has to jump.

His next steps are heavy ones. Selfishly, Keith can’t help but wish that something would happen to make this seem like some sort of momentous act. Like time might bend around him, slowing down his movements and giving him another moment to really consider what it is that he’s about to do.

But the universe doesn’t pause for Keith Kogane. It doesn’t slow for him one bit.

His heart is like a kickdrum in his chest, punching his ribs so fast and so hard that he thinks they might crack, and his entire body shaking with adrenaline and fear. The sound of his boots against the wooden deck below echoes in his ears as he slowly steps forward until the top of the railing is pressing against his stomach like a belt of ice. The only thing he can hear now is the deafening sound of the propellers thrashing as they slice and churn at the water below.

It isn’t in his head this time. Keith is really standing at the edge of a precipice now, staring down into a void just as dark as the one he feels in his heart. He’s entirely numb, completely washed of all emotion—it’s as if the waves below his feet have risen over the deck and opened him up, as if they’ve scrubbed him clean from the inside out and walked away, forgetting to sew him back up again after they left.

There’s nothing inside of him now except for that lingering thought, the one that’s forming twisted words full of encouragement that are convincing enough for him to lift his right foot and set it on the lowest rung of the railing in front of him.

Mechanical movements take over, fluid and efficient as Keith hoists himself up and over the metal barrier until he’s standing opposite of where he was a moment before. At his back is the chilling spray of saltwater dampening his shirt and wind so cold that his hands long ago turned white. The same ones that are gripping the railing in front of him as he stares down to where the tips of his boots are pointing back towards the deck. Towards safety. Towards all the reasons he is on the wrong side of the railing in the first place.

Lifting his head, Keith gazes out to the heart of the ship, where the windows are brightly lit and the faint sound of music is playing on in the distance. He waits for something. Anything. A sign, a reason, a stir in his chest.

Nothing.

There’s nothing.

Not even an ache of disappointment as Keith drops his eyes back to his feet. Perhaps it’s because he was expecting nothing in the first place.

With a surprisingly steady grip, Keith reaches behind himself and carefully turns in place until he’s facing the ocean, the railing tight against his lower back. He squeezes the metal hard as he stares down, down, down to the thrashing water below, his stomach lurching at the dizzying height, and the tightening of his grip causes the cut skin across his right knuckles to sting. That spark of pain whispers one last dark thought into his mind. That all of the pain crushing his heart will stop once he loosens his grip. How easy it’ll be when he starts to fall.

Closing his eyes, Keith slowly draws in one last, deep breath, and begins to let go.

 

L.

Lance shifts on his back, huffing indignantly as he tries to get in a more comfortable position. Granted, it’s a little cramped on the bench he’s splayed out on, especially considering it was never intended for people to lie on in the first place, but he’s doing the best he can under the circumstances.

Blustering his lips, he folds his left arm underneath his head like a pillow, wiggling until the part of his jacket that bunched up against his spine and is currently digging into the small of his back flattens again.

Peace at last.

Tilting his head back, Lance draws in a long breath through his nose, the cold night air making him feel refreshed, almost clean. As if he’s washing out the old, stagnant English air from his lungs and is replacing it with new air, air filled with hope and promises that had long escaped him.

It’s eerily silent out here on the lower deck, with most of the _Titanic_ ’s inhabitants retiring inside, away from the chill in the wind kissing the ship as it plows through the night. Lance had come out after dinner after letting Hunk know he was going for a walk to explore. Hunk, completely enamored by a tall girl named Shay with dark hair and an innocent smile, had waved Lance off with a mindless “Uh huh,” before turning back to ask her something with unbridled enthusiasm. Typical.

Regardless, that’s how Lance had started off, just strolling around the third class deck, running his fingers along metal beams and rivets, peering over the side to watch the water breaking against the starboard side of the boat. Then Lance had turned his gaze skyward, and all the breath was stolen from his lungs.

He’d never seen so many stars.

So here he is now, getting comfortable on a bench near the stern of the ship with his eyes fixed on the breathtaking view above his head. Lance barely notices the sharp bite to the wind that tousles his hair, too enamoured with jumping his gaze from light to sparkling white light, desperate to find constellations in the celestial net hanging above him that his mother had told him about so long ago.

Her voice is here with him now, whispering in that warm, rich way that reminds him of the smell of coffee and flowers and too-tight hugs. And that rock is back in his throat too, the one that grows each time he thinks about the family he left behind, and he wonders not for the first time how he hasn’t choked on it yet.

Swallowing hard, Lance starts to drum his fingers on his stomach to distract himself, following the beat of a song that one of the passengers below deck had been playing in the mess hall where they’d had their supper. He’s probably doing an awful rendition of the tune and he can’t keep a beat to save his life, but it’s pulling his mind from thoughts that are making his heart ache, so he can’t really bring himself to care.

Just then, something flashes out of the corner of Lance’s eye, making his head snap to the left just in time to catch the flare of a shooting star trailing across the sky. It burns longer than any other shooting star he’s seen before, a definitive tail emerging behind it for a handful of quickened seconds before it sputters and disappears back into the black of night.

“Wow,” Lance breathes out in wonder, his mouth hanging open as he stares at the spot where it faded away. His heart feels a little too big for his chest, struck by the sight he’d just witnessed and how, for some reason, he feels like that shooting star was meant for him.

 _Make a wish, mijo_.

Lance closes his eyes and winces at the jolt in his chest at the sound of his mother’s voice. It’s so clear in his mind. As if she’s lying next to him now like she used to on their back lawn, tracing shapes between the stars that he had been too young to understand but loved nonetheless. The hand on his stomach clenches, bunching his jacket into his fist.

He’s already made his wish. And it came true. He’s on a world class ocean liner straight back to America and will be in the arms of his family in a matter of days.

He’s on his way home.

There’s nothing else he could ask for.

An odd sound jolts him out of his reverie. It takes him a moment, but he picks up the sound of running footsteps from somewhere behind him, drawing him out of his thoughts. He frowns up at the sky and tilts his head back to try and see where it could be coming from, but he sees nothing. Odd. Must be some kids running around on deck, just out of his sight.

Just as he’s shrugging and turning his attention back to the stars, he realizes the footsteps are growing louder. Getting closer. Furrowing his brow, Lance tilts his head back again and lets out a choked noise when he suddenly sees a body barreling straight for him, all of his muscles stiffening in shock.

A hand comes down on the bench right above Lance’s head a second later, stopping the person from running straight into it, but they don’t give a moment’s pause before they’re shoving away with a sound that could almost be a sob.

Lance’s heart skips and pulls so hard in his chest that it jerks him upright. There’s a feeling seeping into his stomach, some dark, heavy thing that is telling him that something is _wrong_.

“Hey!” he calls out after the person. Such a simple word sounds so stupid leaving his mouth, but it was the first thing on his tongue and he just wanted to make the person stop, turn around, _anything_. But the person doesn’t falter, stumbling back into a run and disappearing out of his sight as if Lance had never spoken at all.

Lance sits there, staring at the place where the person had disappeared, feeling more than a little dumbfounded. It’s probably nothing, right? A lover’s quarrel, a fight between parent and child, something that gave whoever that was a push to go get some fresh air on deck. Lance knows the feeling well after living with a hoard of siblings. There are times one needs some serious alone time.

But that creeping feeling is still weighing on him, pushing in like a fist on his sternum, making it just a little harder to breathe.

What if that person needs help? What if something happened to them? Something that isn’t as minor as a sibling bickering over who gets the top bunk?

Lance bites his bottom lip, unable to tear his eyes from where he last saw the back of the person running away from him. He feels trapped. Everybody needs space. That’s normal, right? It’s just… what if this is one of those times where it isn’t normal? And all Lance is doing is sitting here with frozen muscles and an ache in his chest?

“That’s it,” Lance mutters, jolting himself forward and onto his feet. Right. Movement is good. He’s doing this. It can’t hurt to just check and make sure that person’s okay. Was it a guy or a girl? The shadows and the angle made it hard for Lance to tell when he saw them coming at his bench, and they turned away too fast for him to see their face before disappearing.

Straightening his jacket with a sharp tug, Lance takes a deep breath and begins to follow the same path the person took a couple minutes ago now. The wind pulls at his coat with chilly fingers, and it’s now that Lance finally realizes just how cold tonight really is. Crossing his arms, Lance continues across the deck, turning his head left and right as he walks, looking for any sign of movement to draw his attention.

He isn’t prepared for what he finds.

The person is standing directly in front of Lance, but on the wrong side of the railing. What had caught Lance’s eye was them slowly turning around to face the wake the _Titanic_ is leaving behind, their arms stretched back to hold onto the railing. As if they’re preparing to jump.

Lance doesn’t even think twice. He starts moving forward slowly, forcing himself to take deep, measured breaths as he gets closer. The person still hasn’t noticed him, and Lance realizes that it’s a man now, that white shirt stretching across shoulders too broad to be feminine, and he doesn’t know of any woman who wears pants. The wind keeps catching the dark strands at the back of the man’s neck, where his hair is longer than most gentlemen that Lance has encountered, and suddenly Lance’s heart stops.

Is that—?

Lance’s thoughts come to a screeching halt as he watches the man take a deep breath, like he’s readying himself. Fear grips his heart in a vice at the same moment that the man starts to tilt towards the water. Adrenaline kicks in, and everything that's close to common sense is thrown to the wind as Lance’s mouth opens and the sound of his own voice shatters the moment.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you!”

The words leave him sounding a lot more confident than he actually feels, but apparently Lance’s statement was enough to catch the man’s attention. He lets out a sharp gasp and tightens his grip on the railing, head whirling around to look over his shoulder and see who else is sharing the moment he clearly thought he was alone for.

That’s when the world just bottoms out, a void yawning open at his feet to swallow Lance whole. Because he knows that face. And he knows those eyes. Because he was right.

It’s him.

“It’s you.” The man from the ramp, the one Lance almost put in the Southampton harbor only hours before, speaks softly, yet both of those words catch on the wind and float to Lance’s ears, burning his eardrums, engraving themselves on the inside of his brain.

He recognizes Lance too.

“It’s me,” Lance confirms with a sheepish grin. It’s pure chaos inside of his chest right now, a whirlwind of emotions colliding together that ranges from elation at being recognized by the man who has haunted his mind all day to bone-rattling fear that something terrible is about to happen.

Lance is still moving forward slowly, so so slowly, holding his hands up and away from his body to try and come off as non-threatening as possible. He fights to keep his tone light despite the catch in his throat as he speaks again.

“Fancy seeing you here. What, you didn’t have a little dinner soirée to attend tonight?”

The guy, the one with the face so beautiful that it’s taking Lance’s breath away even when it’s contorted with pain, shakes his head and turns back towards the ocean. He shuffles in place a bit, flexing his hands on the white metal bar that is currently his only tether to the ship. Lance’s eyes catch on the ruined knuckles of his right hand. He can see the dark drying blood on the pale skin covering the back of that hand and his throat tightens.

What the hell happened to this guy?

“Go away.”

“Sorry,” Lance says. “Can’t do that.” He keeps walking, just a few feet away now, his heart beating so hard in his chest that it feels like he might shatter. If he can just get close enough to catch him if he starts to fall…

“Yes, you can!” The guy snaps, whipping his head around to glare at Lance. That’s when Lance can see the sheen of tears glistening on his cheeks, the way his eyes are rimmed with red and his skin is two shades too pale. “Just turn around. And walk away.”

Lance has never really been good at listening. He keeps moving closer. Just a few more steps and he’ll be within arm’s reach.

“No can do, sir.” The guy’s face spasms with frustration and annoyance, but Lance continues on, because at least he’s being a distraction. At least he's still here, holding onto that railing. Any second spent keeping this man on the _Titanic_ is better than him falling towards the freezing water below. “Because it seems like we’ve got a problem here. See, you’re supposed to be on _this_ side of the railing, not the other way around. And it is my civic duty to inform you of such, and to apparently teach you the correct way to stand on the deck of a ship.”

“Stop where you are!” the man barks, and Lance halts at the harsh demand, hands still outstretched. He feels like a statue. “I’ll let go,” the man threatens. “Take another step and I’ll let go.”

“I really don’t think you will,” Lance replies carefully, barely keeping the tremor out of his voice. Their gazes are locked in a war with no give, and finally Lance can see that fascinating color of the man’s irises that has been on his mind since this morning. Something dark that edges into violet, mixed with pain and fear, a fear so dark that it verges on terror and is causing the man to shake where he stands.

The man scoffs, a broken laugh rattling out of his chest. “You don’t know me. As if _you_ would know what I do or don’t want to do.”

“All due respect, sir, but in this case, I believe I might.” Lance slowly slides forward another step, letting his words serve as a distraction in the stern challenge he sets in his tone. He feels a slight thrill high in his chest at the look of shock that momentarily skitters across the man’s face. “I know you don’t want to let go because you don’t want to fall from a height that would make it feel like you just jumped straight into a pool of concrete. I know you don’t want to let go because you don’t want to try and swim in water that is below freezing and is so cold that it’ll make your lungs freeze right in your chest.”

The man’s eyes are growing wider, his chest rising and falling rapidly as the wind around them throws his bangs across his forehead like flames licking his skin, nearly obscuring his eyes. God, those eyes.

But he’s still watching Lance. He’s still listening.

Lance swallows hard. “And I know you don’t want to let go because if you wanted to, if you _really_ wanted to, then you would have already.”

The man opens his mouth to protest, but stops. He turns his head, stares down at the ocean churning a hundred feet from where he stands on the lip of the _Titanic_ , lips parted slightly as if he’s just now realizing exactly what it is he’s done and what he was about to do.

Heat swells in Lance’s chest, warming away the fear that has been freezing him from the inside out ever since he first realized what was about to happen. Those eyes, the ones that have embedded themselves into his brain like a tattoo of the darkest ink, connect with Lance’s once more, making his pulse skip in his throat.

This is it. He’s going to climb over and everything is going to be okay.

“You know nothing about me.” Five blows to Lance’s heart, each laden with contempt and dripping with poison. It is said in a tone so cold and so cruel that Lance has to take a step back to stop himself from losing his balance and falling over completely. Christ, he wasn’t expecting that. “Now, _leave_.”

The man faces the water once more, taking a deep breath, and Lance can’t take it. He reaches down and yanks at the laces crossing over his right boot before pulling on it so hard that he has to start hopping in one place to not fall over. It’s enough of a spectacle that it thankfully draws the guy’s attention right back to him, confusion riddling his unfairly beautiful features.

“What are you doing?” he says incredulously. Lance sees that he’s shaking, knows that holding on so tightly to that railing while being off balance mixed with the cold means weaker muscles. Even if the guy wants to hold on, there’s going to come a point alarmingly soon where he just might not be able to anymore.

With renewed vigor, Lance tugs and tugs at his boot until it’s free of his foot before tossing it over his shoulder like salt leaving a superstitious woman’s fingers. Then he gets to work on his other boot, repeating the same routine of a messy unlacing and balancing on one leg while hopping on the other until that boot pops off too.

Letting out an irritated scoff, the guy tries again to get Lance's attention, almost yelling now. “What are you _doing_?!”

“Well, if you’re so certain that you’re about to swan dive into the Atlantic ocean,” Lance replies, whistling sharply through his teeth as the cold of the deck starts seeping into his socks now that they're both planted on the deck. “Then someone’s gotta go in after you, right?”

“You’re insane,” the guy barks. There’s still lingering disbelief in the set of his eyebrows and chin, so Lance shrugs, and lets his coat slip off his shoulders and down his arms until he’s folding it neatly on the deck just to the side. He’s only in his shirt, pants, and suspenders now, and somehow this gives him enough confidence to walk right up to the man’s side to lean forward on the railing inches from where the guy is holding on.

Turning his head, Lance fixes him with the most serious stare he can muster, looks him dead in the eye and says, “Are you really going to make me climb over this railing and jump with you?”

The guy’s mouth falls open. Apparently, he is at a loss for words. It only lasts a moment, however, before he whispers, “You _are_ insane.”

“You can call me Lance, actually. And you are?” Lance reaches forward and holds his hand out in front of the man’s chest as if truly waiting to receive a handshake, despite the fact that the man's fingers are currently occupied with keeping him tethered to the ship.

Lance isn't much for praying.

It didn't give him anything he needed when he was starving on the streets of London, begging for food at corners of boulevards and falling asleep at night with a darkness gnawing a hole in his stomach. It didn't do anything for him when he had to go back to the same company who had been advertising jobs but turned him away, time and time again, until finally, they relented and he was finally able to begin to make his way in the world like he had promised his family. That was all him. He made it happen, gave himself life and purpose and strength where prayers had failed.

So, no. Despite the fact that his mother had taken them to church every Sunday and whispered words of wisdom against his forehead when she had kissed him goodnight all those years ago, no. Lance doesn't pray.

Except for now.

Now, in this very moment, Lance is praying, with every cell in his body and every inch of his soul.

Give me your hand, give me your hand, give me your hand.

The man stays silent. He doesn’t move a muscle.

“C’monnnn,” Lance pushes, wiggling his fingers playfully. Give me your hand. “You’ve got me ready to launch myself into the ocean after you and you won’t even tell me your name before we go? That’s just bad manners.”

“...Keith.”

Lance blinks, mouth parting open slightly in shock. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it almost certainly wasn’t that.

“Keith,” Lance repeats slowly, tasting the name on his tongue. “Well, Keith, being from the first class and all, I would think you should know that it’s impolite to leave a man waiting for a handshake.”

Keith lets out a scoff, something catching in the back of his throat as he does so. He's looking down at the water again, face crippled with pain, his entire body visibly shaking against the cold of the wind. It's impossible out here, a damp chill so invasive and deep that it gets to the marrow of their bones and eats them from the inside out.

Taking a deep breath, Lance pushes his hand out even farther until it's hovering right in front of Keith's chest, his eyes fixed on the face that captivated him from the moment he saw it.

"Keith."

Slowly, Keith turns towards him. There's so much pain walled up behind irises unlike anything Lance has ever seen in his life before now.  

"I need you to take my hand." 

Even more slowly, Keith closes his eyes. For a moment, his face is entirely serene, a blank sheet of paper that had once had a story scribbled in harsh ink smudged by the palm of the hand that wrote it. But now, standing inches away from Lance with nothing but his fingers wrapped around a white metal rail to keep him anchored to this ship, he looks at peace.

Fear rumbles through Lance's chest like an earthquake, and he chooses that exact moment to reach forward and close his fingers around the front of Keith's shirt at the same time that Keith chooses to let go.

A choked cry breaches Lance's lips as the realization of the moment barrels into him at full force. The weight of Keith's body pulls at his arm so harshly that he barely has time to think before his chest is slamming into the railing and his other arm is shooting out to wrap itself around Keith for leverage as he twists mid-air until he’s facing Lance. The look on his face doubles the adrenaline thudding through Lance’s veins, and it’s all he can do to scramble to find a better grip on Keith to keep him from slipping away.

Keith lets out a shout, his voice snatched away by the gust of wind that is breaking against Lance's back, but his hands are reaching towards the rail again, scrambling for safety, fingers grasping for metal instead of trying to push Lance away.

The entire world is off-axis, as if everything in Lance's life has been narrowed down to this one point, this one moment in time where it's his muscles straining and his body burning as he pulls, grappling against gravity and wind and cold numbing his fingers.

The universe is working against him, mocking him as he reaches forward to grasp at the waist of Keith's pants, hoping for a belt loop or some other leverage to help pull him up, but his hand falls an inch too short and just pulls Keith's shirt up and away from where it had been tucked into his slacks. Keith jolts down another few inches, a cry bursting out of him as his feet slip against the hull of the ship, desperate for some sort of foothold but finding nothing but slick black metal.

A curse punches the back of Lance's teeth as his shoulders begin to ache, but it doesn't matter because he reaches, stretches that much harder, practically bends himself in half over the railing until his forefinger hooks onto one of Keith’s belt loops and is able to yank up. He hears a strangled noise of protest near his ear, but he could care less, can only focus on the fact that Keith is that much closer to him and to the deck of the ship instead of dangling over the water below.

Keith's hands have found what they sought as well, fingers wrapping back around the railing that they had just abandoned a moment ago, but this time the will to live has brought strength back into him. Lance can feel Keith's body trembling, can feel the strain of his muscles as he does everything he can to heave himself back up and over the railing, or at least closer to Lance. It drives Lance to fight that much harder too, to scramble for leverage on the lanky body now pressing closer to his chest, to do anything to get him to safety.

Lance can't stop praying.

But they're almost there. With a harsh tug from Lance that gets Keith that one inch farther away from the ocean below, Keith is able to get that foothold he was looking for, one of his shoes finding footing on the edge of the deck. A manic laugh of relief rattles out of Lance’s lungs when he feels Keith take on some of his own weight, and his grip around Keith’s torso tightens even further.

“C’mon,” Lance grunts, still pulling him forward. “We’re almost there, c’mon!”

Keith is panting, breaths breaking hot and hard over Lance’s shoulder as he grabs the topmost rail and gets his other foot on the bottom rung of the railing in order to push himself up and over the obstacle towards safety.

For a moment, Lance’s heart soars. They're so close.

But a shuddering heartbeat later, he both hears and feels the squeak of Keith’s boot slipping against the damp bottom rail that gives out under his weight and topples him back towards the water below.

Strangled yells leave them both at the exact same time as Lance is pulled once more to the point that the entire front of his body slams into the barrier that Keith should never have been on the other side of in the first place. Gritting his teeth against the throbbing in his chest, Lance digs his fingers into whatever part he’s able to grasp of Keith’s body and forces himself to tilt backwards. Keith is shouting again, his words falling uselessly against Lance’s ears when he can hear nothing but the trembling boomboomboom of his pulse pounding through his body.

Nothing matters except for getting Keith to safety. Get him over the railing, do anything to make it happen, make it happen _now_. Keith’s fingers are nearly tearing holes through his skin, they’re gripping him so hard, but Lance revels in it, savoring the bruising ache of Keith’s strength as another sign that he’s trying to save himself.

Because it means he wants to live. To stay. To make it. He wants to make it, and Lance is the only way he’ll be able to do that now.

So Lance pulls. He heaves, shuffles his feet back, then thinks again and lifts his foot to the bottom rung of the railing for leverage and heaves one more time. He’s saying something to Keith, can’t understand it himself, doesn’t even know what words are leaving his mouth, but he knows he’s yelling something like directions, because he can feel Keith nodding against his shoulder and can feel Keith’s body moving to accommodate whatever it is he’s saying.

It becomes a blur, a series of motions and muscles pushing and words assuring and hearts pounding to the point that, for a moment, everything just stops. They are suspended there, arms wrapped around each other on the edge of the largest ship in the world, like a century old painting in a museum.

Then the moment breaks.

Keith finds a foothold that bears his weight and pushes up at the same time that Lance pulls back with every ounce of strength left in his body and suddenly, Keith is toppling upon him like a sack of potatoes and Lance is down for the count. His back hits the deck and knocks the air straight out of his chest, and that, coupled with the full weight of Keith collapsing on his chest, makes him wheeze out a noise he never knew he could make. Keith voices something similar in his accompanying groan, and Lance can barely keep his eyes from crossing while he tries to figure out which way is up.

Then Lance feels a shift against his leg, the firm weight of a body on his chest and the hard press of solid wood at his back, and everything becomes clear. He slowly turns his head to the side, eyes searching just as Keith looks up at the exact same time.

Something like electricity jolts through Lance's body when their eyes meet, locking his muscles in place and setting every single one of his nerves aflame. He can't help the way that his stare drags across Keith's face. He can’t make himself stop.

Keith’s eyes are beautiful, so wide and captivatingly dark, his pupils blown wide with fear and adrenaline but still managing to take Lance's breath away. The lashes that frame them are thick, almost like a girl's, and the shape of his lids are almond-like, adding an ethnic hint to his features. His skin is pale from the cold and contrasts against the near midnight black of the shoulder-length hair that frames his cheeks.

In all of his unashamedly obvious staring, Lance catches the moment when Keith's gaze focuses and his lashes start to flutter as he becomes aware of their current positions. Immediately, Keith tenses in his arms, and that's what completely pulls Lance's attention back to the situation at hand.

It’s the way Keith is currently lying on top of him, Lance's arms around his waist and their legs tangled together like a sailor's knot. It’s the feeling of Keith's fingers gripping his shoulders like Lance is his lifeline, and how with each exhale that leaves Keith's mouth, Lance can feel his breath dancing across the nearly frozen skin of his cheeks like a numb caress. But the one thing that Lance latches onto the most, the thing that makes his stomach jump high into his chest and then swoop down low like a bird over water, is how little space there is between Keith's face and his own.

A moment later, Keith seems to notice that too. His head snaps back as though he's been slapped, his cheeks tinting pink, and the next thing Lance knows, Keith is struggling in his arms as if Lance's very touch is scalding him.

"Let me go! Get off of me, you—"

"Hey!" Lance barks, trying to untangle his arms from around Keith's back, but Keith's frantic movements are making it more difficult when Lance has to avoid taking an elbow to the face, Jesus, if he just calmed down, it'd be fine. "Will you quit it, I'm trying to help–"

"I said _off_!"

"And I said _quit it_!" Lance snaps. Keith still is flailing, uncoordinated in his manic state, so Lance just kind of. Handles it. He hooks his right leg across Keith’s back and over his opposite hip at the same time that he manages to catch both of Keith's wrists. Hiking his hips up, he uses his weight—which isn't much, granted, but it's enough—and the element of surprise to roll them over so Keith's the one who's getting slammed into the deck this time, all the air in his lungs leaving him with a whoosh of breath.

"I need you to calm _down_." Lance bites out each word as he stares at the man beneath him. It's almost funny, actually, the look on Keith's face that's bracketed between Lance's hands pinning Keith's wrists to the freezing deck below. His mouth is literally hanging open in shock, not that Lance blames him after he just pulled that particular move, but if the situation they're in wasn't as serious as it is, he might make a comment about Keith swallowing a fly if he keeps his mouth open much longer.

But that's the thing. It _is_ that serious, and something tells Lance that anything close to a joke right now would be ill-timed and poorly received. As if he can read Lance's mind, Keith's mouth snaps shut and he starts to tremble violently under Lance.

"Please. Get off of me." Keith whispers, his voice scraping out of his throat so hoarsely that Lance's jaw clenches in sympathy.

"If I let you up, do you promise not to high-tail it towards the Atlantic?" Lance asks, slowly easing pressure off of where he was holding Keith's arms to the deck. Keith hadn't been resisting him at all. All the strength seems to have drained out of his body, the only tension in his muscles coming from the sporadic shaking that seizes him every few seconds.

Keith's face twists sharply at Lance's words, what little color had risen to his cheeks draining away. With what looks like an enormous effort, Keith nods slowly, holding Lance's eyes the entire time.

Nodding back, Lance takes his hands off of Keith's arms and moves his palms to the deck by Keith's shoulders instead, preparing to push himself up and away as he stands. But something bright flashes in his face a moment later, blinding him so suddenly that instinct takes over and he brings one hand up to cover his eyes with a yelp.

"Who goes there?" The stern question in a deep baritone voice rattles into Lance's ears. He barely has time to register the fact that Keith is shoving his chest before he tilts off balance and topples backwards, hitting the deck once more with a groan. He's going to have an offensive amount of bruises all over his body come morning.

Blinking dumbly, Lance watches Keith stumble to his feet, hands pawing at his collar and down the front of his chest before trying to fix his shirt with trembling fingers. Another wave of light sweeps across them, highlighting an odd look that washes over Keith's face as he realizes he can't button his shirt up without the buttons that are clearly missing from the top half of the material. Instead, he crosses his arms tightly across his chest and ducks his head, shoulders folding inwards like the wings of an injured bird.

Lance doesn't know what overtakes him, but he's somehow standing a moment later, his feet carrying him over to where he had folded his jacket when Keith had been standing on the edge of the ship just minutes before. He picks it up and unfolds it in one fluid movement before draping it over Keith's back and stepping nonchalantly off to the side.

Keith flinches as the weight, head raising as his fingers catch the material of the coat to keep it in place. He stares at his shoulder, processing what just happened as the light of what Lance now realizes is a flashlight bounces between them, the harsh yellow catching on the planes of Keith's jaw and cheekbones.

Leisurely, Lance tucks his hands into the pockets of his pants and starts whistling a nameless tune right as the ship's officers finally reach them, both of them breathing hard from their run.

"Now what's going on here, then?" One of the men asks, his voice thick with a British accent. He lifts the flashlight in his hand until it points directly in Lance's face, making him squint and raise his hand to cover his eyes once again before it’s gone, moving to point at Keith, who scowls and stares directly into the light instead. "Thought we heard a ruckus back here. Shoutin’ and the like."

The other officer, just off to the side, stays silent. That's what worries Lance; the look on the man's face is hard, verging on judgmental and suspicious as his gaze roams back and forth between Lance and Keith. Unable to stop himself, Lance subtly shuffles another step to the side, putting some space between the two of them while trying to play it off like he was shifting his weight to his other foot.

"Well, officer," Lance begins, canting his shoulders back in a confident slouch as he curls his words into his infamous drawl. None of them know him well enough to hear how forced it is. "It's kind of a funny story. I—"

"I'm unwell," Keith jumps in, stepping closer to the crewmen. His back is straighter, chin up and head held high. Lance blinks twice at the sudden transition from the terrified man that had fallen into his arms just minutes ago to this first class passenger with the haughtiness of royalty. "I fell ill during dinner this evening with my fiancée and had retired to my room in hopes of resting so that I might feel better."

The second officer tilts his head to the side and angles his flashlight at the base of Keith's neck, the beam catching on the open front of Keith's shirt before he yanks Lance's coat tighter over his shoulders to hide his chest.

"All due respect, sir," the man says, an odd note to his tone. Lance recognizes his voice. He was the one who had called out to them first. "This doesn't exactly look like a first class stateroom to me."

Keith's eyes narrow and a sharp thrill of fear leaks down Lance's spine. He can't do anything but stand there and feel the tension grow as the two of them share a silent moment that weighs heavy on the air around them. Tilting his chin up ever so slightly, Keith turns back to the first crewman.

"I needed fresh air. The smell of new paint was unfortunately not doing wonders for me in my state. I went for a walk, hoping the ocean breeze would do well to clear my head and settle my stomach, and I—" Keith falters, his eyes flicking over to meet Lance's stare. "I ran into this gentleman on the way."

Lance tears his eyes away from watching Keith blatantly lie through his teeth to look at the crewmen. He flashes them an obnoxiously charming smile when they turn their attention to him. "That would be me."

"I had just made it to the end of the ship here when I became… physically ill." Keith looks like he's about to be physically ill right now, if Lance is being honest. He's not sure if it's from the lying or because upperclassmen have to learn so many other ways to say 'vomit' without actually saying the word itself. "To spare both, uh,—" Keith looks at Lance quickly, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Lance stares back blankly before realizing he's supposed to speak. "Oh. Uh, Lance." He tries not to be offended that Keith forgot his name. To be fair, he had been in a very stressful situation. It's fine. This is fine.

"Lance," Keith emphasizes before continuing. "To spare both Lance and the deck of the ship on her first night's voyage, I was bent over that railing there."

He gestures behind him to the very spot that he had, in fact, not been sick, but had been standing on the other side and had been just inches from willingly stepping out into open air. Lance's gut twists low in his stomach and he can’t help but think that after all this, he might be the one who gets ill.

“I hadn't realized how slippery the deck was, you see," Keith lets out a strained chuckle, rubbing the back of his head in forced chagrin. "And I was bending too far over and lost my footing and, well," he pauses, eyes flitting back to Lance's face. "Lance caught me. If it wasn't for him, I would be in that water right now, lost at sea."

All eyes turn to him. Lance swallows hard, trying to get rid of the boulder that's gone and wedged itself in his throat so that he can speak without sounding like a frog. "I'm just glad I was here to help," he says, hands clenching inside of his pockets.

"My word. Well, I'm glad you're alright, sir," the first man says, shaking his head in disbelief. "That sure is lucky he was nearby."

"Yes." A new voice slithers in suddenly, that one word drawn out in such a way that it sounds more sinister than sincere. Lance whirls around to find a tall man standing right behind him, grinning down at him like he's a boot and Lance is the bug he's hoping to squash. He has an eyepatch across his face, covering one eye, and in the harsh light from the officer's flashlights, it almost looks as if the man's teeth are fangs. "It certainly is lucky that this young man was here ain the right place at the right time, isn't it?"

"Sendak."

Lance nearly pulls a muscle in his neck spinning around to stare at Keith. He _knows_ this guy?

"Mr. Kogane." This Sendak guy sneers, his tone practically dripping with disdain. He slowly walks around Lance, walking around their little group in leisurely circles that verge on predatory with his arms crossed behind his back. Each thump of his boots hitting the deck echoes like an executioner's step in Lance's ears. "How unfortunate it was that you experienced such an ordeal, and that you had to be helped by a commoner, no less. You must be traumatized."

Keith doesn't move from where he stands. It's only his eyes that follow Sendak's movements, and the hatred that burns behind his irises is enough to make Lance's throat run dry when he sees it. He doesn't need anything more to figure out that this guy is bad news. He just can’t wrap his mind around how they could possibly know one another.

"It may come as a shock to you that the traumatizing part was not the fact that a man just saved my life," Keith replies. He has an ease to the tone of his voice, as though this is merely some sort of odd banter between acquaintances, but there's an edge there too. A blade in waiting, making the barest of appearances as if to show Sendak that Keith isn't backing down. "But I do appreciate your concern. I assume that Alfor sent you to check on me?"

Sendak pauses behind the two crewmen, his feral smile widening even further. There is nothing about this man that comes off as anything less than daunting. His arms are corded like tree trunks, his chest wide and his shoulders broad. He looks like he could crush a man's neck between two fingers without blinking an eye, which is probably why both of the ship's officers and Lance have been unable to speak a word since his sudden arrival.

"At the behest of your betrothed, good sir. I'm sure she will want to know that you're quite all right." Sweeping an arm in front his chest as if leading the way, Sendak dips down into a small, mocking bow as he looks straight at Keith. "Shall we go?"

Lance can barely feel his fingers, he's so scared. He's seen some rough people in his time. Living on the streets, doing anything and everything possible to find food and shelter—that was a dark place to be and was surrounded by even darker inhabitants. But this man leaves a chill in Lance's bones that he's not sure he'll ever be able to shake free.

There's a hidden malice in every movement Sendak makes and every word that leaves his tongue, as if just his presence itself is a threat. Lance knows he doesn't understand the dynamic between this creature and Keith, and now that he’s been harshly reminded of the reality that Keith is a gentleman with a fiancée and that Lance will be sleeping on a bunk bed in the belly of the ship tonight, he's not sure he ever will have the chance to know. They’re from two different worlds that are never meant to interact. That's the thought that seems to be terrifying him the most.

"Of course," Keith agrees, his tone falling flat.

Turning to the crewman who first found them, he offers them a stiff nod and his thanks for checking on them to make sure everything was okay. They both wave him off, citing that it was just their job, had to check it out, “It’s protocol, you see”, and they apologize for not being there sooner to be of assistance. Keith waves them off at that but catches Lance's eye as they turn to return to their regular duties.

For a moment, it's just them again. Lance belatedly realizes that he really hasn't been able to tear his eyes from Keith this entire time. Not that he can blame himself for that, seeing as the man before him is probably one of the most beautiful things he's ever laid eyes on, but still.

A small part of him is scared—mortified, even—because Lance isn't exactly subtle with his feelings and actions. He's always been an open book for the world to see, and that means that he's fairly obvious in all things involving emotions. But another part of him, one that's speaking a bit louder than the one that's so afraid, tells him that he's also not alone in this. Whatever _this_ is.

There's something in the air between them, something palpable, like Lance could reach out and touch it if he just knew where to look, and he's certain that he's not the only one who feels it. The very look on Keith's face tells him as much.

"Well." Keith clears his throat and nods at Lance once, sharp and quick. "Thank you, Lance. For all of your help. And I'm–I'm sorry that you—" He falters, unable to finish his thoughts.

But Lance knows.

"There's nothing to apologize for," he says, shrugging his shoulders and offering Keith a soft smile. "I'm... I'm glad I chose tonight to lay on a bench and look at the stars at the back of the ship."

Movement out of the corner of Lance's eye catches his attention. Sendak is still lingering nearby, leaning against a column as he strikes a match and uses the flame to light the cigarette hanging from between his lips. The faint orange glow casts a haunting array of shadows across his face as he watches them speak.

Swallowing hard, Lance turns back to Keith, offering a short nod in return. "Who knows? Maybe I'll see you around."

Keith blinks in shock, his eyes widening before he lets out a small, but what seems to be genuine, laugh. "Right. Who knows?"

Lance can't help it. He lets out a grin so wide that his cheeks begin to ache. He made Keith laugh. If that isn't something to celebrate, he doesn't know what is.

The next thing he knows, Keith is turning and walking away, passing Sendak without a second thought on his way back into the heart of the ship. Sendak stays by the column a moment longer, pulling in a long drag from his cigarette before blowing out a long stream of smoke in Lance's direction. Chills clatter down Lance's spine, and he can't help but feel a phantom finger paint an invisible target in the middle of his back.

Sticking the cigarette back into his mouth, Sendak turns on his heel and begins to follow after Keith, each lumbering step shaking the wood beneath Lance's feet as he leaves. He has nothing else to do except stand there and watch Keith walk away, something odd constricting in his chest as he does. He's still not much for praying, but the last time he did, he was able to save Keith, so maybe there's something in it after all.

Taking a deep breath, Lance prays that Keith turns around. Just once.

Then it happens.

They are almost out of Lance's line of sight when he sees Keith halt and look back over his shoulder in his direction. Lance's heart somehow does a backflip and punches the back of his throat at the same time, because holy shit. Holy _shit_.

He has to squint now, but he thinks he can see Keith speaking to Sendak. Whatever he has to say apparently upsets the other man, because when Sendak throws an arm in Lance's direction, the gesture is made with something akin to anger. They're too far away for Lance to understand a word they're saying, but it's evident when their voices grow louder that they’re in an argument.

Lance assumes that Keith gets the last word in because Sendak throws both hands into the air and turns back towards Lance, his strides long and heavy as he leaves Keith behind. The palms of Lance's hands suddenly feel clammy and he doesn't know what to do with himself except stand in the same place he's been frozen in since they were confronted by the crewmen and wait for Sendak to reach him.

When he finally is within earshot, Sendak begins to speak, not stopping until he's barely a foot away from Lance and is towering over him in both bulk and height. "Listen to me, you little _rat_. I don't know what actually happened here, and I'm damn certain that I don't want to know either." Lance's mouth drops open in shock, but he can't say anything as Sendak pushes on. "All I do know is that the young master over there has demanded that I invite you to dinner tomorrow evening as thanks for saving him from what would have been a particularly nasty fall." The sneer on the man's face speaks volumes. "Consider the invitation extended."

"Consider the invitation accepted." The words have left Lance's tongue before he even knew that he was thinking them. Oh, hell.

Sendak's expression wavers between rage and disgust, his eyes roaming Lance up and down before finally fixing on a spot somewhere over Lance's shoulder. A terrifying transition happens then, his features morphing into something more secretive and knowing, and it sets alarm bells off in the back of Lance's mind.

"I'll be sure to inform him accordingly," Sendak replies, lifting a hand to pull what is now a stub of a cigarette from between his teeth. Blowing out another puff of smoke, this time directly into Lance's face, his lips slowly curl up into a sinister grin. "You want to know what I find so fascinating about this poor, horrifying experience for Mr. Kogane?" Sendak leans forward and points the cherry of his cigarette towards the same spot he'd just been staring at. "How you seem to have had enough time to take off your boots and coat while he slipped and nearly went for a swim in the good ol' Atlantic. Now, that _sure_ is lucky."

And with that, Sendak flicks the butt of the cigarette over Lance's shoulder, turns on the heel of his boot, and walks away.

Ice has seeped into Lance’s veins and knitted itself between the bones of his ribs, encasing his entire chest in a cold fear. Slowly, he turns his head until he can see it. The still-lit cigarette lies smoldering on the deck, its bright red end pointing like an accusing arrow towards his boots that are sitting by the railing where it all happened.

Pulling one hand free of his pocket, Lance presses his palm to his mouth and slowly drags his hand down his face. It takes him another moment to realize that, one, Keith still has his jacket, and two, Sendak knows that it's his.

Numbness has started to cloud Lance’s mind. He moves on autopilot now, his muscles forcing him forward, stepping over the cigarette until he gets to his boots and picks them up. Slowly, he turns and follows the path that first led him to this area, retracing his steps around a corner and just off to the side until he finds the bench he had been on when this all had first began.

Easing himself down onto it once again, Lance takes the next few minutes to struggle to get his frozen feet into his boots and to tie the laces with fingers that can't seem to stop shaking. He just doesn't know if it's from the cold anymore.

Once he manages that, he rests his elbows on his knees and presses his face into his hands. Taking a deep breath of cold, ocean air, Lance then lets out a whisper of a word, knowing it'll be swept away by the wind the moment he says it.

"Fuck."


End file.
